


a rupture, a rapture

by newsbypostcard



Series: Incorporeality [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Memory, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain Marvel Compliant, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Black Panther (2018), Sexual Content, Super Soldier Serum, Time Travel, coming back from what feels like a ruin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 02:03:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 100,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: “In my timeline, on April 27th, 2018—today—Thanos invades Earth to collect the final Infinity Stone, and succeeds. With the snap of his fingers, Thanos erases three and a half billion people from existence on Earth alone."Steve pauses. His gaze falls to something out of frame—finding words, or maybe composure. When he straightens again, he looks titanic.“I’ve come back in time to prevent this from happening."(After the Cataclysm, and also before.)





	1. Day Zero

**Author's Note:**

> This draws lightly from the previous parts in the series, but can easily be read standalone.
> 
> After CW, I was compelled to write how they move forward. Since IW, I’ve been compelled to write how the hell they go back. I posted the first 15 chapters had a whole lot more of the fic written before Endgame came out—this fic is noncompliant with Endgame and unaffected by it, though by pure coincidence it shares a couple plot similarities (they are very different stories). Consider this fic a “Nomad Steve (and friends) reboot the universe out of spite alone” post-IW alternate universe.
> 
> I really put Steve through it in this fic, but the end is not what you might expect it to be. I promise to end on hope. 
> 
> Some details are slightly ahistorical; to my knowledge, there was no Gotham Club in 1940s Brooklyn, for example. Science is, as always, bullshat from the very bottom of my liberal-arts-major heart.
> 
> Thank you, WIP readers, you powerhouses of fandom. Tags subject to change as I add chapters.

  


## PART I

  


### August, 2017

  
Neither Steve nor Bucky knew how to handle the attention required by Skype. 

Talking on the phone was easy. Steve could stare at the ceiling or shut his eyes and think of Bucky however he liked. Bucky tended to call when he had his feet in the lake or when he’d been reading in bed and didn’t want to anymore, and Steve liked to think of him there: peaceful by the water, or else lounging half-naked in bunched-up sheets. It was nice for Steve to intuit his way through the conversation and let his thoughts wander without feeling the need to control his face. 

But, though awkward, Skype was a definite good. It felt important to see Bucky’s face between visits. Apart from just making Steve happy, it gave him information Bucky never offered voluntarily—whether he was sleeping enough; if he’d had too much sun. If he was _really_ happy or just pretending. If it was a good day or bad. If Bucky was glad to be talking to him, or if he was doing it because he felt lost. Steve could read that on his face a hell of a lot better than he could in his voice. 

Skype also meant that Steve spent the whole call smiling. Bucky was left just to deal with that. Neither one of them could avert their eyes without defeating the whole point of the camera in the first place, but an undertow of embarrassment pulled at their conversation. Talking like this, focused solely on each other without the background of the world to help them through… it felt too personal. They both obscured their faces with beards partway, but Skype hid little even so. 

Bucky had recently gotten in the habit of Skyping Steve when he was in the middle of cooking so he could walk out of frame if he needed to, or at the very least slouch to the back of his hut to throw something into the pot over the fire. But that night he’d lain still, tired, not talking much but not ending the call. He’d propped the bracelet of kimoyo beads that displayed Steve’s face—Bucky’d shown it to him on his last visit, both of them staring in bewilderment as it had projected a movie with tiny particles as clearly as if it’d been on a screen—a little far away and aside. Steve could only see half of his features hidden behind the blankets as they sat silent on the line, Bucky’s eyes fond and crinkling, quietly mortified of their shared affection.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve asked, when his mind had wandered enough.

Bucky sighed gently, shifting onto his hip. He never stopped Steve from delving into their ostensibly shared memory; never reminded him of its unpredictability, though the implication hung on the back end of every agreement to let Steve bring it up. Bucky was remembering more and more in those days, anyway. Sometimes he called Steve to fact-check the past himself. 

There seemed to be more memories bouncing around in Bucky’s head that he didn’t dare address directly, instead asking around the point. Questions about the war were common—where they were and when. Sometimes Bucky asked about Brooklyn, but he asked those questions carefully, like he was still trying to reclaim some of the things undone when Shuri helped him deprogram. 

Steve, for his part, had spent the last five years fixating on his memories of Bucky—first in grief and then in desperation, trying to unearth something in the annals of his mind that might lead Steve to him. Instead, all he had found were more questions, more things unexplained. 

Some things were meant to stay unaddressed, buried in the past—on this, they agreed. They made a point of reminiscing less when they were together, making new memories instead. They excavated the past mostly on the phone, pulled to nostalgia by the distance between them. Some hack-and-slash effort at forging a connection to spite the forces that kept them apart.

Some memories occurred to Steve again and again, belaboured by the longing of distance, plaguing him until he at least brought them up. There were things he craved the answers to, after five years of recollection in a misremembering world. They both knew that they were trying to curate a shared history with selfish ends—a disassembled puzzle without a clean edge. They turned to each other to sketch out something erased, hard to find even within themselves.

"Sure," Bucky said. 

“This was... not long before the war.” Steve looked up to confirm Bucky wanted to go into it, pushing on at Bucky's nod. “Do you remember—the guy in the alley, with the gun?”

Bucky’s eyebrows steepled. “The guy with the gun you wanted to stop bare-handed? Yeah, Steve. I remember.”

Against his better judgment, Steve smiled. 

“Don’t laugh about this,” Bucky said. “He had a _pistol,_ you jackass. All you had were two stupid fists and stupider ideas.”

“He could've shot that guy."

“He could've shot _you_!”

Steve smiled anyway, unable to help himself. “You ever find out what happened with that?”

Bucky’s eyes turned downcast—shy, or reluctant. “Think I went back the next day," he muttered. "I assume the guy lived. Pretty sure I'd have remembered if I found evidence of anything else.”

Steve nodded. The thing that'd gotten him about this was how angry Bucky'd been—how it'd made him quiet. Rarer then. “You were so livid," Steve said. "Manhandled me out of there without a word. Think you’d have knocked me out if you had to.”

“I would have," Bucky said. "You had the self-preservation of a moth at a bonfire. A concussion would’ve been easier to handle than a gunshot.” Bucky re-positioned again, sitting up against the wall behind his bed. His fist pulled at the sheet, bunching it halfway over his lap. Steve knew he was naked, but tried not to think about it too hard. In the August heat, Bucky looked unbearably appealing, sitting in the semi-dark, all seduction and sheen. 

“Did you tell me that story just to get me riled up?” Bucky asked. He called them that sometimes— _stories_ , like memories were just books he’d read somewhere. 

“No,” said Steve. “I just wondered—I don’t know why. I can’t shake this idea…" He winced. "You didn’t _know_ the guy, did you?”

“The guy at the business end of the gun?”

“No, the gunman.”

Bucky frowned hard. Steve thought he was going to get an earful about why he thought Bucky would have known some guy with a gun, but his expression evolved, eyes falling askance as though he was trying to remember. “I don’t… _think_ so,” he said slowly. “You think I had mob connections?”

It hadn't actually fully occurred to Steve that was what he thought until Bucky said it. Back then, the way Bucky'd been acting, the cageyness of him, the way he took one look at the situation and hauled Steve out of there... “Sometimes I wondered.”

Bucky looked at him, not saying anything for a while. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

“Sorry. We don’t have to…”

“No,” Bucky said, rubbing hard at his eyes. “You have to tell me the rest now. _Did_ I have mob connections?”

“Guess I'm asking if you think it's possible.”

Bucky took the question seriously. “Fairly certain I didn’t discharge a firearm until basic.” He chewed on his mouth, like he was unsure. “Doesn’t sound like me. I liked…” He peered at Steve, searching for the word.

“Stability,” Steve provided, and Bucky nodded.

“I don’t think I would’ve gone near the mob. Not…” He gestured at Steve through the screen.

Steve wasn’t sure what to make of his implication. If anything, he thought he might have _driven_ Bucky to the mob, rather than kept him away from it. Through the thirties they’d hid themselves away fervently enough, pretending best they could that they were just two bachelors sharing a flat, but by 1940 they’d been slouching toward some kind of an authentic life. 

The trouble was that Bucky’d been terrified to do it. Even Bucky, careful Bucky, had started to relax without Steve forcing him into it. When Bucky had money, they became semi-regulars at the rotating cast of underground bars the rumour mill said were safe that week. They never drew much attention to themselves, just wanting to drink and dance a little, to let their hands fall a little more naturally against one another, to let their bodies slip into a little more sync than they usually allowed in the scope of the public eye. With enough liquor in him, Bucky’d even start putting his nose behind Steve’s ear on their way home, whispering sweet or filthy things. Steve used to be able to feel Bucky’s warmth under his jacket when Bucky’d slung his arm around his shoulders like that. 

Yeah, it'd felt like a life. But Bucky’d still had a hard time with compartmentalization from time to time. As the lines blurred in his mind about where his relationship with Steve was supposed to end and begin, he tended to withdraw. He put so much more effort into passing for straight than Steve ever bothered with that when he wobbled, he wobbled hard. 

The way he’d been acting strangely around the time with the gunman in the alley made Steve think he'd felt a wobble that'd lasted. 

Maybe it had been a cover-up of some kind—if Bucky’d known the gunman because he’d been trying to protect Steve; if Bucky was trying to buy his own gun, or if he’d just seen him around too many times. If Bucky’s suspicions had been right and they’d been clocked making time in the Gotham Club after all.

Steve didn’t want to ask any of that, to give him false ideas. Not if Bucky was unsure.

“I don’t know how I’d have known a guy keen to threaten someone with a gun in plain view,” Bucky went on.

“But you think he was mob.”

“Who else would’ve held a gun to a guy like that?”

“Cop? Private eye? Hell, Buck, maybe he just had it for protection’s sake. You remember what it was like back then.”

Bucky frowned again. His eyes trailed off, tracking away. “Yeah."

“The reason I—the thing that doesn’t sit right about it. You were so mad at me—”

“ _That’s_ weird? I was mad at you a lot, Rogers. Hate to be the bearer of bad news.”

Steve licked his lips around a smile. “Once you got me home that night, you were just so... quiet. Forced me into sitting down, stared at me, pacing around. When you finally did open your mouth, you… I dunno, it was like you weren’t angry anymore. Upset with me; sure. Your voice cracked. That shut me up.”

"I got scared enough for you, I was liable to… react. You know that.”

“It was just the things you said. Not _this_ guy, like it mattered. Not to think about it anymore, to stay out of alleys more than usual. To trust you to handle it.”

“To trust—” Bucky’s eyebrows raised—“ _me_ to handle it?”

“Yeah.”

“What was I gonna do?”

“I don't know. That’s why I asked.”

Bucky considered this, chewing on his lip. “You sure about this?”

“Sure as I can be.”

Bucky shook his head, looking off into the distance. “You probably just scared me, Steve. Didn’t want to lose you to any damn thing. Seeing you try to fight a gun like that… I might’ve said anything to stop it happening again.”

“Well, you _did_ threaten to chain me down if I didn’t forget about it.”

Bucky smiled. “That sounds more like it.”

“Then I told you not to make promises you weren’t gonna keep.”

That earned Steve a laugh. “That _really_ sounds like it.” Bucky wrinkled his brow. “How come you didn’t listen? Aren't you out there running head-on toward guns right now?”

“Well, how else am I gonna get you to chain me down?”

“Think I could just sit on you and that’d do the trick.”

“You think you could sit on me _now_?”

“When are you coming back? Might request a new prosthetic so it’s a fair fight.”

“Sounds like more promises to me, Buck.”

Bucky grinned—a little shy, but sure enough—and Steve felt compelled to kiss him through the screen. 

“How’s three weeks?” he asked suddenly.

Bucky’s smile faded fast. “I was joking.”

“I wasn’t. I was thinking of coming down anyway—”

“Why? There a gun around here for you to run directly toward?”

“You can’t say that kind of thing while flirting, Buck, or I’m liable to think you’re being serious.”

“I already told you I was joking.”

“As long as you weren’t joking about sitting on me.”

Bucky shook his head. “You got a real problem, you know that?”

“Yeah. I just can’t shake this old flame. Pain in my ass. Airfare costs like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Exactly,” Bucky said. “You were just here.”

“Four months ago.”

“Three and a half, actually.”

“Well, in three weeks it’ll be four months. That’s longer than—”

“It isn’t longer than anything,” Bucky cut in. He moved quick when they bantered like that, no matter how tired he was. “We haven’t seen each other twice that close together since—” 

But he stopped. 

Steve gave a pinched smile. "It's not too soon."

Bucky stared a while, then finally nodded. Steve's smile turned soft again. "If you're sure you can afford the—”

“Find a gun to point at someone," Steve offered over him, "and I might get there faster.”

“You’re a laugh riot,” Bucky said with severity, and Steve had tried to hide his laugh behind a hand. “You’re a regular fucking Groucho Marx, you know that?”

  


  


  


  


Steve had gone to visit, and Bucky had held him down for his trouble. But Steve can’t think about any of that now.

  


  


  


  


It is an endless bloody march back to the tower. 

Steve’s body remembers defense. He goes through the motions. There’s nothing else to do. An hour must pass; it’s all the same. He fights ahead. He always fights. 

Natasha’s there; hands in his uniform. He picks out individual words over the sound of the fallout, the hot thrum of failure. Get a grip, she says, furious. You’re only human. I don’t plan to lose you too.

Steve had only waited a second before extending the points of his shield into an alien’s neck. Only a second. There was no reason for it; only that he’d realized the alien in his hands wasn’t gone. It was here; this alien survived while Bucky had died. This mindless, gnashing thing, driven by an evil that extends beyond form, was deemed more important than him.

Steve was always going to kill it. It had just taken him a second to get there. 

He thinks about telling her as much, but he can’t unclench his jaw.

An eternity later, they make it inside. That feels like a mistake. Steve doesn’t know why; doesn’t have enough clarity to turn back around. His body, no longer in motion, stops making sense. It is meant to fight. That’s what he’s for. 

He fights; Bucky slips away from him; Steve fights. That’s the rhythm of things. Failure’s no excuse to stop. Losing Bucky’s no excuse. Losing Bucky’s never been an excuse. There is still a war to win. Steve's supposed to go back outside.

Okoye moves ahead of him, talking about security. Steve blinks, tries to pay attention. Thor is there; Rhodes is there. Bruce is there, shambling in his armour. The talking raccoon is there. The tree is not there; Sam is not there. Bucky is not there. 

Steve shuts his eyes, fists clenching. It should have been Steve; it shouldn’t have been.

He should be fighting.

"This battle is not for you."

Steve blinks. Okoye's looking at him. “What?”

Okoye turns to Natasha. “Sit him down.” She sweeps out of the room. 

“Do us all a favour,” Natasha says, turning to him, "and don't say another word.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Steve says emptily.

“You did. Take off your shields.”

“What?”

“They’re dripping all over the floor. At least consolidate the blood in one place.”

He thought he’d removed all the blood already—cast over his palms. But his hands are clean. They’re not clean; ashes through his fingers. It’s just not what he expects.

“Take them off,” Natasha says again. Steve looks at her, drawn in by the way her anger's winding down. Vortexes are comprehensible. “Take them off.” She pulls at one of the buckles on his arm. 

Steve understands, then. It’s not his fight. It should have been Steve; it shouldn’t have been.

As he fumbles with the straps on his shields, the tremors set in. They don’t leave him for a very long time.

  


  


  


  


Thor hangs back to help Bruce and Rhodes with their armour. The raccoon says something about not being interested in labs on general principle and hangs back with them. He seems to be friends with Thor. Thor made some strange friends while he was out of town.

Natasha turns and looks at him. Maybe he said that out loud. She faces ahead again and Steve follows on autopilot, wrapping his hands into tight, bruising fists. There’s something wrong with the world that’s left; Thanos must have changed it. Left the whole damn mess of it pulling at the seams.

“I don’t think so,” Natasha says. Steve must have said that out loud, too. 

“This isn’t right,” he insists.

“I know."

Steve wonders where Sam is. He figures if he was going to see him, he probably would have seen him by now.

  


  


  


  


Natasha walks into the lab and then stops walking. Steve stops there, too.

Bucky was here, before. Went into cryo right down that hall. 

He’s not here now. Steve and Natasha are alone. There are signs of a struggle; there’s no Shuri, no Dora to guard. Steve watches as Natasha steps forward to stare out the window. It's chaos outside, Steve can hear it—the ripping of flesh. The Kingdom Guard ( _the King is dead_ ) would clean up, Okoye'd explained as they forged ahead, ignoring the fighting on either side of them. She had been driven by the need to secure the nation. Steve had had her steel, once.

They'll never sift human ashes from alien out there.

He kind of wishes Bucky had died indoors. 

"Sit down before you pass out,” Natasha says.

"I'm fine," says Steve.

"You're barely standing.” Natasha’s voice is firm, but quiet now. Steve’s instinct is to hold on to her somehow. It's just that she's far away, looking at the world he failed, and Steve can't stop his hands from shaking. “Sit down. Put your head between your knees. You’re barely breathing.”

Steve wants to reply, but his jaw’s stuck again. Natasha finally rolls her eyes and kicks a chair toward him, then strides over and pushes him down.

He crumbles like a house of cards. Knees like pudding. His lips are numb, fingers tingling. Suddenly the floor is falling away. 

“What’s wrong with me?” he asks. He keeps his eyes fixed on his feet. If he wills them solid, maybe they'll stay.

“Panic attack.”

“I don’t get those.”

“You do now.”

Steve folds his fingers into fists again, elbows at his knees. His mouth is so dry. “Am I dissolving?" 

“I don’t think so. It’s not like these things are on a time lapse.” She’s stepped away from him again. She insists in watching his failures unfold. “Just breathe.“

He tries. It takes a while to get it right. He realizes he's been skating along without air for a while now. "God." 

“You’re gonna be fine.”

He breathes a long time. When he can move again without fearing dissolution, he looks up to find Natasha, afraid that she’s gone—but she isn’t. Light strikes her face through the window. She looks almost luminescent, observing the war. Another crack in reality for things to fall through.

“You’re not dissolving,” he says, skeptical. Just to confirm.

“No,” Natasha says, calm by now. "Falling apart's not an option. Not for us.” She doesn’t turn as she says it; just looks up at the sky. “Not for long.”

“I don’t feel sane.”

“None of us are. We just have to push ahead.” She looks over her shoulder. “You told me that.”

Steve holds her eye, like there’s something about what she’s saying that he’s missing. Maybe he gets the gist anyway.

“Do you want a turn?” he asks.

“What?”

“In the fainting chair.”

Natasha’s looking outside again. Her mouth turns with a hint of a smile. “Maybe later.”

Steve nods. He looks around the room. He can flex his fingers all the way, now. It doesn’t stop the shaking, but it does mean he can use his hands if he has to. 

“Why are we here?”

“Okoye told us to wait,” Natasha tells him.

“She did?”

“You were pretty out of it.”

It’s still just the two of them. Maybe they’re the only ones left. 

“What else did Okoye say?”

“We’re waiting on her Highness for further instructions.”

Her Highness. _The King is dead._ Is Shuri queen? Will she have to fight for the throne? That seems unfair. She’s a skinny eighteen.

He’d said it out loud again. “I think there are provisions in place, in the event of catastrophe,” Natasha says in reply. _Catastrophe_ —an understatement. Three and a half billion people turned to dust. “Plus I think she can appoint a proxy.” 

"Think I could offer to be her champion or would that be...?"

“Maybe Okoye will rule,” Natasha muses, not seeming to hear. “I’d like to see that.”

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Is it working?”

“Sort of."

“Then sort of.” The corner of her mouth pulls up again.

Suddenly, Steve is struck with affection for her—a rush of a feeling, threatening to choke. 

“Are you okay?" he asks, hollow.

She doesn't answer. It's a stupid question. Her arms are still crossed as she looks outside. 

“We really messed up today,” she says finally, still watching the war. 

Steve nods. He doesn't want to go over there, but he can’t stand to see her standing alone. When he thinks his legs will hold him, he shambles to his feet and faces the world he failed. 

“You'll stay?” he asks, after a long, virulent pause. 

“I will if you will,” Natasha replies.

Outside, it is a slaughter. They watch it unfold with uncomprehending eyes.

  



	2. Promises to Keep

  
Steve looks between every one of them: Thor and Bruce, Rhodes and the raccoon; Natasha, where she stands on the other side of the room; Okoye beside her, standing at attention beside four Dora. There's Shuri, barely standing but there, one arm in a precautionary sling from a dislocated shoulder. She presses the tips of her fingers to her forehead now and then—the only indication that she’s sustained a concussion, healed in an hour here in the infirmary. 

She hadn’t taken the news well. None of them have, but for some reason it’s her helpless silence that digs at Steve the hardest. It isn’t normal for Shuri to be listless, sifting through her incomprehensible displays with a fixed expression. She says nothing, looks at no one. 

War does this to everyone. It should never have gotten to her. 

Steve tries to pay attention to her displays, but he can’t look at what she’s doing and listen to the conversation at the same time. He shuts his eyes, tries to get a grip. 

“The question we are trying to answer,” he repeats, still in his fainting chair, “is how we go about undoing this.” 

“There is no _undoing this_ ,” Rhodes counters. He’s been fighting Steve for the last five minutes. “We couldn’t even prevent it in the first place! We don’t know the first thing about—” 

“I don’t want to hear ‘can’t.’” Steve’s voice is coarse, a thin stream over gravel. He looks to Natasha, hoping to find acknowledgment, but she contributes nothing; only holds his eye. Calm, at the very least. Maybe that helps. “I don’t want to hear anything that doesn’t contribute.” 

“Steve, for crying out loud. You’re really looking at this room with half our numbers depleted and asking us to have more answers than we did this morning?” 

“Not answers,” Steve counters. “Ideas. We know more now than we did then, so I’m looking for ideas on how to apply that knowledge to some kind of plan. We know Thanos can turn back time; is there any way—” 

“No,” Rhodes says, shambling to his feet. His legs are back in their braces. “There isn’t, and I won’t be part of pretending there is.” 

“—to track him?” Steve finishes through gritted teeth. His fist sits bunched at his folded hip. “Can we get the glove off somehow, use it for our own purposes? Thor, what about your—” 

“How the hell,” Rhodes interrupts, stepping forward, “do you expect to do that now, when you couldn’t do it down there?” 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Steve says thinly, but Rhodes shakes his head and points out the window. 

“What’s stopping him from rewinding time again and doing exactly the same thing over again? Steve—this time, he’ll kill you. He’ll kill all of us, just to stop us being thorns in his side. The man is _immortal_ , isn’t that the consensus? Took Thor’s hammer blast—” 

“Stormbreaker,” Thor provides automatically. “Different than the hammer.” 

“—like it was nothing?” 

“He _was_ injured,” Thor says. “It only seemed not to matter.” 

“If we’d gone for his head,” Steve says. 

“Perhaps then,” says Thor, voice low with regret. “But he may see me coming, should we meet again.” 

“That’s assuming we can even find the guy,” Rhodes says. 

“There has to be some way—” 

“There’s not,” Rhodes says, firm. “And even if there were, that is one hell of a long shot. There is nothing guaranteeing that if we track down Thanos, he won’t just kill us where we stand.” 

“That’s why,” Steve says slowly, “we’re trying to make a _plan_ —” 

“Steve,” Rhodes interrupts. “I like you. I’m not saying this to be cruel, but you are not being rational. You are coming at this from a place outside reality—” 

“We are the only ones—” 

“—and this is denial of an order of magnitude greater than I can even describe. Listen to me when I’m telling you that this is a wild goose chase. It’s not realistic—” 

“What is realistic?” Steve says, steely. “Moving forward? Acceptance?” 

“For a start, yeah! There are actual problems out there, things that need dealing with. There are people still on this earth who need to survive. I don’t know if you noticed the news feeds going by—” Rhodes points at Shuri’s display—“but there is a global state of emergency that needs action. Planes are crashing that no longer have pilots. Streets are on fire after massive car pileups. People are concerned about nuclear codes, and that’s just the stuff we _know about_.” 

“And we are the _only_ ones—Rhodes, listen,” Steve says, holding up a hand. “The _conclusive_ list of people in the universe who know what happened—who know what _really_ happened; who know the _truth_ about why three and a half _billion_ —” he pauses; forces a breath, fingers digging hard into the flesh of his knee—“why three and a half billion people are no longer in existence in this world—are the sentinels of Wakanda,” Steve says, pointing out the window with a shaking hand, “and the people in this room. Everyone else will only have theories. There were no cameras; no one would believe the explanation we have. That tells me that the _only_ people who can conceivably provide _anything_ resembling justice or recourse to the people of this world are sitting right here. Now I hear you talking about responsibility—” 

“Drop the Captain America bull,” Rhodes says, “and talk to me man to man.” 

Steve holds his eye. “Rhodey,” he says, voice worn down—“there is no one else. We’re it. Everyone who can do something about this is right here, right now. We're the only people who can begin to address the reasons for why half of life as we know it no longer exists—” 

“I hear you. And your ideas are honorable. But you’re still talking like you want to somehow undo the fact of the matter. Is that your goal?” Rhodes stands as though waiting for an answer. “Is it your goal to try to somehow work outside of reality? To track Thanos down, to—what, take his powers, make it so none of this ever happened? Have you even thought about the implications—” 

“No, I haven’t. Which is why we’re talking about this now.” 

But Rhodes shakes his head. “Steve, I’m sorry. The people we lost are lost. That’s a tough pill to swallow, but I'm not prepared to pretend it's somehow undoable. It's just not." 

Rhodes isn’t being unkind. Steve can see the grief in his bloodshot eyes, hear the grind in his voice the same as it sits in anyone else. Rhodes is the kind of soldier Project Rebirth had in mind when they put Steve through the paces to become their it-man, and Steve has only ever been able to respect him for it. 

Ten or seventy-five years ago he would have envied his clarity, his convictions, his willingness to look ahead. Now all he wants is to punch his forward-looking sincerity clean out of the lab and back to America. 

“I can’t carry the fact that we know what caused the annihilation of half of life as we know it and do nothing,” Steve says. “Thanos is still out there. He’s still got the glove. Someone has to stop him before he does more.” 

Rhodes holds his eye, then nods his understanding. “I respect it. But there’s still a world full of people out there who are suffering, who need a functioning world to live in. Someone’s gotta rebuild. That’s where I belong.” 

They've reached an impasse; there's nothing more to be said. Seeming to realize it at the same time, Rhodes steps forward just as Steve stands, feeling every one of his hundred years creaking in his bones. 

Steve offers his hand; Rhodes takes it. They stand in mutual recognition: two soldiers, parting ways. Their handshake turns to the embrace of old friends, and for a moment they share the day’s excruciation—a passing moment of solidarity, even as they divide and conquer. 

“What will you do?” Steve asks, stepping back with a squeeze at his shoulder. 

“I don’t know," Rhodes admits. "Probably take the Quinjet back to Avengers HQ, if only because I know there’s… parking there.” Steve pinches out a smile. “Plus, if Tony survived…” 

Steve’s heart sinks anew. “Oh. Yeah. I guess he would go there first, if he…” 

They fall silent. Neither one of them wants to finish the thought. 

“I’ll probably get in touch with some kind of authority,” Rhodes goes on. “See where they can use me. Try and get myself on some kind of security council just to be a de-escalating voice in the room.” 

“I don’t envy you.” 

“Neither do I.” His eye catches something over Steve’s shoulder; Steve turns to see he’s locked onto Natasha. “I’m guessing you’re staying.” 

Natasha gives a pursed smile. “Promises to keep.” 

“And miles to go,” Rhodes mutters on before turning his hips one step at a time. “Bruce? You want a ride stateside, join me in adventures of national security?” 

But Bruce looks at Thor, then to Natasha, then Shuri. “No,” Bruce says, looking up. “I think I’ll be more useful here. I _hope_ I can be.” 

Rhodes nods. “Thor, you staying?” 

“I am,” says Thor, "but only for a short time. My people need me." 

“I go where he goes,” says the raccoon, "at least for now." 

Rhodes nods, taking a steadying breath; then, with a round-robin of handshakes and hugs, Rhodes takes the instructions to pick up a set of kimoyo beads on his way back to the Quinjet and lets himself be escorted out. 

They were down another man.

  


  


  


  


### May, 2017

  
“I,” Steve announced, sweating obscenely in Bucky’s too-small bed, “am closing Earth to aliens.” 

Bucky looked up from his book. He’d been using Steve’s torso as a pillow for the better part of an hour, feet against the wall. Steve’s free hand looped around Bucky’s chest in half an embrace. 

“Just like that?” Bucky asked. 

“Just like that. Thor is allowed—” 

“Oh, your boyfriend Thor is allowed in?” 

“But that’s it. No more.” 

Bucky nodded. “I’ll send out the memo tomorrow.” 

Steve hitched half a smile. “By decree of the Winter Soldier…” 

“Hey, I’m White Wolf now.” 

“That'll lend credibility.” 

“Fuck credibility. It sounds threatening; that’s all I ask.” 

Steve smiled fully that time, dragging his fingers across Bucky’s ribs. Bucky was already leaner than he'd been the year before, physique sculpted by farmwork back into the roping musculature Steve remembered from before the war. Steve had been just as thrilled when Bucky’d had more heft to him; he used to be able to sink his teeth right into his pec and make Bucky gasp. 

Bucky still gasped. Steve just had to be creative. He loved this perennial rediscovery—the flux of Bucky’s body, the way it seemed a little bit different every time they met. Bucky despaired of the changes in him, but Steve went out of his way to get to know them, to meet Bucky where he was. There were things that were never altered. It was Bucky all the same. 

Bucky, meanwhile, seemed to thrive on Steve’s stability—the way his body never changed, no matter what he did. Steve might have had trouble finding the time to keep his hair in check, but Bucky’s fingers still found the grooves they used to against his skin, gripping at him, digging into his hip. Bucky knew how to hold him still, how to grind against him while Steve was getting to know him again. 

It had been four months since Bucky’d woken from cryo; four months since Steve showed up unannounced, not long later. Four months of talking weekly on the phone, of thinking about Skype but never figuring it out; of one fumbled attempt at phone sex that had made them both laugh through their embarrassment. 

Now finally, _finally_ , the majority of the awkwardness seemed to be out of their systems. Steve had only gotten into Wakanda that morning, but Bucky still unwound against him, basking in his attention like he’d never once been shy for it. Steve hadn’t seen him so relaxed in years and only spent half as much time reading as it seemed, busy taking in the glow of Bucky’s contentment. It wasn’t that he seemed serene; Bucky’s muscles were still tight, a residual wariness keeping him always on guard. But something—some careful peace—seemed to settle there with Steve draped over him, sweat-shined and sated, the sounds of the village drifting in from far away, molding him into a known unknown. 

They still made such good love. After all this time, they knew exactly how to find each other at his core. 

“How’s your farm?” Steve asked after a few minutes of attentive silence. 

“Mm,” Bucky said. By then the book was set down on the bed. His thumb kept the page; he might have been drifting off. It was hot enough for it. “I like farms.” 

“I hear that helps.” 

“Easy.” Bucky frowned, then bobbed his head a little without opening his eyes. “Not easy. I dunno. Fucking… straightforward. Mission: move bale of hay from point A to point B. Mission success. Need new mission parameters. New mission: move another bale of hay.” 

“You really think of it that way?” 

“Dunno. Maybe it’s just ingrained in me—the same methodical shit as factory work. Except instead of assholes, all my coworkers are animals.” He frowned deeper. “Nah, that’s the same too.” 

Steve smiled. “Found your calling all over again, huh?” 

“My calling…” Bucky opened his eyes, then laid there in silence a long time. “That’s on hold.” 

Steve hadn’t expected that. “What do you mean?” 

“Dunno. That’s why it’s on hold.” 

“But… you’re happy. With what you’re doing now.” 

“For now. Dunno how else to…” He paused. “I can’t just… I can’t just.” Steve splayed an understanding hand against his chest. “There’s gonna come a day when I’m gonna have to get back into the fight.” Bucky craned his head back to meet Steve’s eye. “It's just—not now.” 

Steve reached to free strands of Bucky’s hair from where it pressed tangled lines into his skin. “You don’t have to at all,” Steve said. “Ever again, if you don’t want.” 

“I don’t want. But I gotta.” 

“Why?” 

Bucky’s voice deepened ironically. “I got no right to do any less than them.” 

Steve winced. “Oh, don’t—use that against me.” 

“Hate to say it, Rogers; wish it wasn’t true. But you were right.” 

“No, I wasn’t.” 

Bucky gave him a circumspect look. “How about you quit, then?” 

“Well… no. That’s not—” 

“You and yours are out there fighting. T’Challa’s suiting up every month. What’s Stark leading stateside?” 

“That I have no idea about.” 

“I’m trying to say there’s work to be done beyond throwing bales of hay.” 

“That doesn’t make it yours to do.” 

“Same to you, then. What applies to me that doesn’t apply to you?” 

“I haven’t been through what you have. It’s not the same situation.” 

Bucky looked at Steve slowly, giving him the kind of flat expression that was supposed to make Steve rethink himself. But Steve was so used to that look, seeing it so often since Bucky’d developed it at the age of fifteen, that he just held Bucky’s eye, as solemn as him. 

“Somehow closing the earth to aliens falls to you and you alone," Bucky said, "is that right? You think that’s your job, like you’re the protector of Earth?" 

"I think someone has to try." 

"But you think it’s my prerogative to sleep it off in the countryside for the rest of my days, leave you to go it alone.” 

“I’m not alone,” Steve said. “I’ve got Sam, Nat, support from Wakanda—” 

“I got knowledge,” Bucky said, ignoring him. “I got skills. I’m not going to sit idly by while three and a half billion people— 

  


  


  


  


That’s not how the memory goes. Bruce is saying something about how three and a half billion people can’t just be turned to dust, no matter how much power someone has. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction; there is a consequence, and maybe a traceable one. If they can figure out where, and what, then maybe they can figure out what kind of magic Thanos ostensibly worked—or at the very least, where he is. 

It’s something. It's a better idea than Steve fucking has.

  


  


  


  


“I’m not going to sit idly by while you Avenger types save the world and I—” Bucky waved, book still in hand—“what, hand out juice boxes? Dispense backpats and congratulations? If my last legacy on Earth is what I did as the Winter Soldier—” 

“It’s not. What are you doing now?” 

“It can’t be the care and feeding of the local goat population either.” 

“But you don’t want to fight. You’re always saying that. You said that just now—” 

“Personal failing. Not an excuse.” 

“It’s not a failing, Buck, Jesus. You wanna know what your legacy is? It’s to balance out me and Sam and Nat and Stark, always raising hell.” 

“Now you’re just rewriting history. Every one of us who knows something’s coming has a responsibility to stand up and work with what we have.” He hit Steve gently in the face with the front cover of _The Days of Abandonment_. “Until I get a little more clarity, I’m more of a detriment to the movement than a help, but—at least I _hope_ —that won’t be the case forever. I don’t think… I can lead.” Bucky didn’t look at Steve, but Steve saw his teeth sink into his lips regardless. “Not right now. But I can at least show up, when it’s time.” He opened his book again and pretended to start reading. “So that’s what’s going on with my calling.” 

Steve let Bucky carry on the fiction that he was distracted, smoothing out his hair. “I already told you I’m closing Earth to aliens,” Steve finally said, quiet. “So I don’t know what kind of threat you think is still gonna get here.” 

“Swear to God irony’s gonna get you killed one of these days,” Bucky muttered. 

“I’m just saying—you could retire, if you wanted. Goats are useful to an alien-free world.” 

“Sure. Retire with me, then. No aliens, no problem, right? Not like there’s enough hell on Earth as it is.” 

The thing was—right then, sex-sated, sweating his ass off with Bucky in his arms—Steve really wondered if he could. They could run a farm, if that’s what Bucky wanted. Get livestock to make him happy, a pair of collie retrievers for Steve. Steve could wear trucker caps year-round; Bucky would sweat beautifully through tank tops in the high August sun. Steve would make love to him in the cornfields, create a bed out of the stalks. Maybe not their cornfields. The neighbours’ cornfields. 

Then his thoughts drifted back to Sam and Natasha, waiting in Beirut; to the newspapers he wasn’t reading; to the infrastructural collapse of the nation whose name he used to carry. To the precarity of the world economy, of freedom, of choice. How it was hard enough to ignore all that for a few days of the year, when he was focused on Bucky instead of the rest. 

“It’s not because I want to fight,” Steve murmured, wrapping his arm tight across Bucky’s chest again. 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Rogers,” Bucky murmured back. “Sometimes it’s not about what you want.” 

Steve may not have been happy with Bucky’s conclusion, but it was hard to argue with. It had taken him a minute of hard contemplation, staring off into the dark of the hut, to realize Bucky was craning his neck to look at him. God, he was beautiful; his hair feathered down over Steve’s ribs. 

“You can’t solve all the world’s problems,” Bucky said, eyes slipping down to Steve’s lips. 

Steve gave a sad smile. “Someone’s got to,” he said. “At least someone’s got to _try_.” 

Bucky looked at him a long time, eyes dancing in the firelight, then finally let go of his book, fingers curving against Steve’s jaw. The angle was awkward, but Steve managed to bend to kiss him, propping Bucky’s head up in his lap with his thighs. 

It was ridiculous, made them both grin. Bucky rolled to his knees soon after and pushed Steve back down onto the bed by the centre of his chest, kissing a hot, wet line down the slope of Steve’s body, those fingers finding their familiar grooves. And when Bucky took Steve’s cock into his mouth, Steve was made to forget about the world and everything that wasn’t this—that wasn’t him, wasn't his filthy mouth, wasn’t throwing his head back and saying his name.

  


  


  


  


“Steve.” 

Steve raises his head. People are looking to him for answers. 

“Sorry.” He rubs his eyes. “Someone catch me up on the last thirty seconds…?” 

“Dr. Banner’s argument,” Shuri says, sounding older than she should, “assumes a more rudimentary understanding of physics than—” 

“Sure,” Bruce says weakly. “I have seven Ph.Ds, but my theory’s rudimentary.” 

Shuri throws down her tablet and leans on her fingers, staring at Bruce with intensity. Beside her, Okoye’s fingers tighten around her spear. 

“Are you going to listen,” Shuri asks him, low, “or are you going to babble on about things you don’t understand?” 

Bruce shuts his eyes. “I’m listening.” 

Shuri nods. Steve thinks she'll be an effective queen whether she wants to be or not. “These stones are vessels,” she explains. Finally, Steve’s eyes focus on something he recognizes on the display: a schematic of the gem—the Infinity Stone—that used to be in Vision’s head. “They are foci for power; conduits, if you will. They do not generate their own energy but rather amass it from elsewhere, often in tremendous amounts. From what I could discern from Vision’s power source…” Shuri closes her hand, the screen disappearing with it; then she splays her fingers toward the centre of the room, where the display reappears and grows to show the stone in three dimensions. “They are simply tools; they cannot release that energy on their own. They require a wielder in order to function as intended. That suggests, however, that they can be communicated with, at least in terms of energy signatures. I am still in the process of understanding which synapses were organic to Vision and which could be found in the stone independently, but we may find these stones operate much like artificial intelligences, with neurons, synapses, and similar structures of their own.” 

Steve’s eyes snap over. _Synapses._ “This does not mean that the stones are sentient,” Shuri goes on, either not noticing or not caring about his revelation. “They are not alive, per se; at least not in the sense that we understand life. If they were, half of them would have been eradicated with—” 

She pauses. The room stifles into silence. After a moment, Shuri shifts the display. “But we may not need to understand _how_ the stones operate as much as we need to understand their _effects_. It is clear the Infinity Stones are intelligent in some way. They have complex working memories in a way we cannot yet understand; may be capable of exchanging energy or power between itself and the wielder. This may explain why Thanos’ powers may have evolved over time. In response to your theory," she concludes, glancing to Banner, "I believe energy was gradually amassed by the stone, then perhaps altered by Thanos, and finally released with the snap—the results of which were the dissolution of half of all people. I do not believe there is any physiological trail to follow to Thanos.” 

A solemn silence falls. But the longer Steve stares at the stone displayed in front of him, the more the feeling grows that he’s looking at something important. 

“You mentioned synapses," he says at last, eyes flitting to Shuri. 

Shuri nods, holding his eye back. Maybe she’s thinking the same thing that he is after all. 

“You have… brain-mapping technology," Steve goes on. "To scan, and copy…” 

“Yes." 

“Is that what you used to…?” 

He can't say Bucky's name, but Shuri nods anyway: that's what she used to sift out the programming from the rest of Bucky's brain. 

“And did you happen to get a clear enough scan to be able to copy the stone…? Before you were attacked?” 

Shuri clenches her jaw, thinking something through. Then she waves a hand, and the display in the middle of the room duplicates. 

A figure at the top reads: _99.97% COPY._

“Hypothetically,” Shuri says quietly. 

Relief hits Steve like a wave. He isn’t sure why it matters yet; all he knows is that it does. Hypothetically is a chance, it’s _hope_ — 

But Shuri holds out a finger. “Listen to the meaning of my words, Captain. _Hypothetically._ In a hypothetical world, where we were able to understand the materials the stone was comprised of—which we do not—and I had the _time_ , which I do not… It is imperative you understand that, at least temporarily, I am now the leader of this nation. Your friend Rhodes is right; there is more to do on a day-to-day basis than—” 

“But you made the copy,” Steve says, throat dry. 

“I made a digital copy,” she clarifies, “when my brother was alive and the world was in less chaos. That does not mean very much now.” 

“I’m not following,” says the raccoon from Steve's other side. “What are we talking about here?” 

“I believe,” Thor interjects, “they aim to recreate the stone.” If he notices the alarm on Banner's face, he doesn't respond to it. “Though I can’t understand what good it would do, even if it were possible.” 

“Well, yeah,” says the raccoon. “For one thing, it’s batshit crazy. We just got rid of the things, and now you’re saying you want to make them _again_? How could that end badly?” 

“We didn’t get rid of them,” says Steve. 

“Say what you want about Thanos, but he seems pretty single-minded in his goals," says the raccoon. "If he was gonna do more, wouldn’t he already—” 

“If there’s one thing I know about tyrants, it’s that they tend to get worse over time.” Steve turns to Thor. “Why do you say it’s not possible?” 

“Because the stones are ancient," Thor says simply. "Perhaps older than the universe itself. They cannot simply be copied. Likely they are made of matter that is incomprehensible to us now.” 

“The same matter that exists now existed then,” Shuri interjects. 

“Perhaps that is so, but you humans have barely mastered what you call Vibranium." Thor also doesn't seem to register Shuri's face flashing offense. "There is more in all the nine realms than is dreamt of in your reality.” 

Bruce frowns at him. “You know Hamlet?” 

“I don’t believe I’ve met a Hamlet,” says Thor. “Is she another one of your scientists?” 

“It would not be a precise replica," Shuri interjects, a little terse. "My equipment was able to understand the structure of the stone, not its composition.” 

Thor gestures. “As I said.” 

“But that does not necessarily mean we could not attempt to craft it out of equivalent materials.” 

“Yes, it does," Thor says with a frown. "I am saying there may not _be_ equivalent materials. If there were, they may be located in other realms—” 

“So why’s that a problem?” asks the raccoon. “You control a magic space rainbow that takes you anywhere in the universe.” 

Thor’s brow furrows, as though he’d forgotten this. “Alright. But there is still the issue of knowing where to find the required materials in the first place. I do not delight in being the bearer of bad news, but even if we were able to recreate this stone, there is no telling whether it would work as intended. Furthermore, power of this magnitude can hardly be freely wielded by mortals. Even if it could, the power of one stone—particularly if replicated from substandard materials—is not comparable to six.” 

“Just—one thing at a time,” Steve says. “Are you suggesting that there’s a better starting point than this?” 

Thor opens his mouth in hesitation, but doesn’t immediately reply. 

“You do _want_ to try to undo this.” 

“I do,” Thor says. “But I am not convinced it is _possible._ ” 

“Well, Thor, that’s what we’re sitting here trying to figure out. So unless you have a constructive suggestion, the door’s over there.” 

Thor blinks at him. At first Steve thinks he’s actually successfully pissed off a god, but then Thor opens his mouth and leans forward. “I may have something… that can help,” he says, low. “Though it may do more harm than good.” 

“What is it?” 

“The other gauntlet.” 

Steve stares. “The other—” 

“Thanos forced Eitri to create the gauntlet. Of course, they come in pairs.” 

There is a stunned, profound silence. 

“Of course,” Bruce says weakly. 

“Why would they come in pairs if there are only six stones?” Natasha asks. 

“Most of the Nine Realms’ sentient beings have two hands," says Thor. "It is natural to—” 

“But—are you saying there are twelve stones?” 

“I should hope not," Thor says. He looks alarmed by the idea. "I simply mean that the wielder is unlikely to want to manipulate the universe with his dominant hand impeded by a large metal gauntlet. Too stiff, hardly maneuverable.” 

“Hang on a second,” Bruce says weakly. “Are you saying that someone created the mold for this glove, specifically to wield the universe-destroying gems… and that somebody _kept_ it?” 

“Of course Eitri kept it,” Thor replies. “He is the keeper of Nidavellir.” 

“And no one thought this gauntlet schematic might be better off—oh, I don’t know— _destroyed_?” 

“To erase a people’s history…” 

“What,” Bruce says, exasperated, “ _people?_ People who want to destroy the universe? They should have their inventions preserved?” 

“Do you truly believe this is the first time anyone has attempted something like this?” Thor asks mildly. “More likely the people who put a stop to a previous attempt entrusted the mold to Nidavellir for safekeeping, as they should have done. We cannot know who else might have a plan for how to wield the stones; Eitri’s guardianship of the mold may have proven just as pivotal for either side. Are you not endeavoring to hatch some sort of plan to wield the stones yourselves?” Thor looks around at the lot of them. “Would you consider yourselves dangers to the universe?” 

Recreating an Infinity Stone would definitely put the world in danger of it. It’s just that, given the state of things, it’s hard for Steve to imagine doing more harm than has already been done. 

“The gauntlet is a tool,” Thor continues, “nothing more. Regardless of the design’s intentions, the fact remains that I saw the gauntlet’s twin sitting on Nidavellir not hours ago. Unless Eitri had it destroyed—which, the forge being extinguished, I doubt he could—” 

“Plus Eitri’s probably dust in the wind now anyway,” says the raccoon. 

Silence falls hard. 

The raccoon brandishes a defensive paw. “Hey, I’m just stating facts.” 

“I should warn you,” Thor says, leaning closer to Steve, “that it takes someone of exceptional strength not to be destroyed while wielding even one of these stones, even with the gauntlet. Legend has it that each stone has been found and handled by many a mortal over millennia, only for them to be consumed by the power the stones contained. Only those imbued with the power of the gods have been able to withstand—” 

“No,” Steve cuts in. “Others have survived it. How many people at SHIELD handled the Tesseract and lived?” 

“They handled it with a whole lot of care,” Natasha says. “Not too many people have touched that thing directly. Loki, maybe.” 

“Loki was certainly well exposed to it,” Thor agrees. “But Loki was a Frost Giant, as durable as any Asgardian. Besides, the Tesseract was not the stone itself; it housed the stone, the stone’s energy already diffused. Please do not take offense, good Captain," Thor goes on, speaking low as though imparting a secret, "for I know your strength to be mighty to have moved Mjolnir by even an inch. But you _are_ a mere mortal.” Thor leans back in his chair again, contemplative. “I would suggest to undertake the initiative myself, but I cannot abandon the remaining peoples of Asgard. I know of no other offhand who could carry the mantle that could be trusted, or whose sacrifice would be acceptable.” 

Steve's hackles rise at once. “Billions of innocents, gone. Whose sacrifice among them was acceptable?” 

“That is not what I meant. I meant that the gauntlet is not for use by humans; it would be futile to try. Reconsider your path, Captain. This can only lead to further ruin.” 

“Half of Asgardians restored,” Steve reminds him, and Thor’s face irons out. “You’re telling me that’s not worth the shot?” 

A ping of satisfaction lights in the recesses of Steve's brain to realize he has pissed Thor off this time. “Do not use,” Thor warns, voice low, "my people as leverage—” 

“I’m making a point. We are way beyond the point of caution. If there is even a sliver of a chance, then we owe it to everyone we’ve lost to give it a shot.” 

“Steve,” Banner says. “You can’t seriously think—” 

“Is there a sliver of a chance this could work?” Steve asks Shuri, ignoring Bruce outright. He points at the display. “In a hypothetical world where you have everything you need… is making this stone _possible_?” 

Shuri stares, jaw clenching. “Perhaps,” she says finally. “ _Perhaps_ , in a hypothetical world. But it does not change that I now have obligations. You are asking after a world that does not exist.” 

But Steve doesn't care. “All I’m asking for is a chance.” 

“I don’t like this plan,” Bruce says again. 

“The plan can change,” he counters, impatient. “We’re just trying to find a first step forward. Are you in to help?" he asks Bruce. "You made Ultron out of this; you must have some kind of insight about how it works.” 

“Some kind, maybe. But this doesn’t look familiar to me. I think Vision changed the structure—” 

“You have something,” Steve interrupts. “That’s all I need.” He looks to the raccoon and winces. “I’m sorry—what's your name?” 

“Somebody asks!” the raccoon exclaims cheerfully. “Finally someone fuckin asks! Rocket. My name is Rocket, and thank you _very much_ for showing an interest.” He hitches a thumb in Thor’s direction. “Is there some kind of trick to make this guy remember? A mnemonic device, a reward system of some kind?” 

“I remembered,” Thor says placidly. “Rabbit is but a nickname.” 

“That ship has long since sailed, my friend.” 

“Rocket,” Steve cuts in, ignoring them both. “You know something about these stones?” 

Rocket hesitates. “A thing or two. Not a lot; nothing, really. I’m not really sure if I can be—” 

“A little is enough,” Steve says. “Nat, can you tell me everything you know about SHIELD’s study of the Tesseract?” 

“I can probably do you one better and get you the files,” says Natasha. 

Steve feels his shoulders relax. “Thank you,” he breathes. 

Relief, slow-moving, floods to the tips of his fingers and stays. It isn’t everything; it isn’t anywhere near enough. But at least it's a chance. 

“Okay,” Steve says, low. “We don’t have all the answers. Some of you don’t like the plan, and that’s fine. But we have something. I don’t know about you, but I intend to go ahead with amassing as much info on the stones as we can find. I don’t know if it’ll work or what exactly that’ll do, but it seems like the best place to start.” He looks slowly around the room, meeting the gaze of everyone looking back at him. “I hope… well, there aren’t words strong enough. But I hope to God we can find a way to undo this. Even if we don’t—mark my words, I won’t let this… this cataclysm go unanswered. I hope that you’ll stay with me and help me work toward a different future, but I understand if you need to go. Rhodes wasn’t wrong; there’s a lot of work to be done. If you feel the need to put your efforts elsewhere—” 

“Steve,” Natasha interrupts. “We’re already here. We don’t need the pep talk.” 

Steve's gaze flashes to Shuri to find her staring back. “We should think about relocating to Avengers HQ,” he says, trying to force the authority out of his tone without also letting his voice waver. “If Tony will still let me in the front door, or if he’s… I think the US is probably in too much chaos to notice us coming in, so we might want to make it sooner rather than later.” 

“What are you talking about?” Shuri says shortly. 

“Getting out of your hair. We’ve imposed on you enough—” 

“If you think you are taking my research out of this kingdom,” Shuri says warningly, “you’ve another thing coming. And I do not think you will have nearly the same advantage without it.” 

Steve’s head rises. Okoye registers the implication at the same time. 

“Majesty,” she says warningly, but Shuri holds up a hand. 

“You aim to secure my command?" Shuri says to Okoye. "So be it. But we will do things my way. The first order of business will be to find me ways to distribute responsibility respectfully. I have never wanted to lead, but if there is no other who can carry on my brother’s legacy, we must find compromise. You will find someone to take on the mantle of Black Panther, Okoye, if you please; I will have neither the patience nor the time.” 

“But, my Queen—” 

“My first responsibility may be to the people of Wakanda," Shuri goes on, "but as half of Wakandans have turned to dust, I aim to divide my time between the living and dead.” Her eyes find Steve’s without a second's interruption, even as Okoye's roll with frustration. “I will do everything in my power to help recreate this stone, Captain, if it is within my power at all. It will take time; not months, but years.” She bows her head, as though to bestow a sense of gravity. “This, too, will have to be a combined effort. Among other things, I will require assistance to diagnose and find suitable materials for its possible recreation. I will also have to build the machine to do it. That is if I can even _begin_ to understand what I am looking at in the first place.” 

“I understand,” Steve says, breathless with gratitude. “Just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.” 

“I need for you to understand that this still may not be possible. You prefer to operate on the premise of hope. I find that admirable; my brother did the same. But you must be prepared for the possibility of failure. I will not call it an eventuality, but the chances of this succeeding are very slim, even if we do create the correct set of circumstances. Do you understand? I cannot work in miracles.” 

“It’s a chance,” Steve repeats, certain as ever. “That’s all we need.” 

Shuri nods, satisfied. Then, as she turns her attention to Bruce to ask specific questions on how Ultron was made, Steve gives himself a second to let his eyes wander, finding Natasha across the room. 

Her eyes bore into Steve, communicating without words. He knows what she’d say—what she’s going to say the first second they spend alone. 

The whole time they've been sitting here talking, Steve hasn’t been able to shake Erskine’s voice from the back of his head. _There is a great power hidden in the earth,_ Erskine had said, _left here by the gods, waiting to be seized by a superior man._ Even Thor had said only those imbued with the power of the gods can withstand the stones—but hadn’t Schmidt, bolstered only by the serum, managed to handle the Tesseract for years? 

Steve doesn’t know a goddamn thing about the stones. But he does know that vita radiation from the serum chamber didn’t kill him, and being frozen in the Arctic for seventy years didn’t do the job either. He may not have Thor’s strength, and he’s sure as hell not a god, but Steve is still pretty sure an Infinity Stone wouldn’t kill him—at least not right away. 

Erskine had seen enough compassion under all of that fight to offer Steve a chance. If a chance was all he needed back then, maybe it's enough to change something now. 

Or at least to let him try. 

Someone has to try. 

  



	3. No Holy Ground for Mourning

  


“Do you know what you’re doing?” Natasha asks, behind him.

Steve's feet drag to a stop. “No...”

“Then reconsider.”

“...but whatever it is, I’m doing it.”

Natasha pulls back hard on his arm. “Steve.”

“Oh, what, Natasha? How have I fallen short this time?”

Her eyes search his. Steve doesn’t like being analyzed. He especially doesn't like it in the depths of a mountainside lab, where there's a massive battlefield standing between him and any step toward progress. “Say we give this a shot,” Natasha says. “We get the gauntlet, make a copy of the stone, see if you can handle it... and you burn up. What then?”

“What do you mean, what then? Then you'll know it didn’t work.”

She blinks at him. “You know what this sounds like.”

“It sounds like the same argument I’ve been having all my life. I expect this from Bucky, I don’t—”

Everything stops. Only his heart pounds relentlessly on. When he remembers to move again, he finds Natasha’s eyes still on him. 

“You’re right,” she says, reading signs of life. “He’d say the same thing that I am.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you’re being brash.”

“So I’m being brash. Maybe brashness wins this thing.”

"Steve... the battle's lost.”

“But the war's not over. Not until we bring Thanos down.”

She stares at him, eyes penetrating. “You know no one’s asking you to do this.”

“Is that what you think? What about the billions of people out there who have no idea what just happened to their loved ones, praying to someone to make it right? Seems pretty clear to me God’s not on our side—”

“So that makes you a surrogate?”

“No. But if I am more than just a man, it seems like the situation calls for finding out.”

Natasha sidles forward, arms crossed over her chest. “All the SHIELD rhetoric you’ve been fighting against,” she says, serious to the point of menacing. “All those expectations you’ve been trying to shirk. And now you’re telling me—”

“When are you going to stop pretending that things are the same way they were this morning? This doesn’t have a tidy solution. If we're going to undo this, something’s gotta give.”

“And that gives you license to make yourself a martyr?”

“We don’t have the luxury of options,” Steve says. “Show me a better way.”

“Thor is right. It’s risking more carnage—”

“Either you’re not hearing me," Steve cuts in, "or there’s something you need to get out of your system—”

“People need you. You’re upset because nobody else has a plan? Nobody else has your faith that there’s even a way forward.”

“I can’t play babysitter to their feelings. That’s not a commander’s job.”

Natasha points down the hall. “They’re not an army.”

“They are now.”

“All I’m asking," she says slowly, "is that you be patient with them, and that you _listen_ —”

“We don’t have the luxury of time, either. I’ll say it again—if they don’t want to be part of this, they’re welcome to leave. I’ll do it alone if I have to.”

He tries to walk away, but Natasha pulls him back so hard he almost loses his footing. “You can convince me of a lot,” she says, low. “You might even convince me that you can really do this. But there is no way in _hell_ you can do it alone. Forget command, for God's sake, and figure out a way to _lead_.”

All Steve does is remove her fingers where they’re clenched on his sleeve. God, he has to get out of this uniform. “We don’t have _time_. I can’t convince anyone here of a plan they don’t believe in from the start. They need to get with the program or get out of dodge. You want someone to coddle their feelings, that’s somebody else’s domain.”

“You’re angry. You’re grieving, I get that—”

“And I don’t need mine coddled, either.”

“Just see goddamn _reason_. People need someone to tell them how to forge ahead. Since there aren’t that many people on the planet left, maybe it’s you who needs to step up or ship out.” Steve blinks, taken aback. “If you’re a leader, then damn you, _lead_. But if all you want to be is a martyr, then stop pretending this was ever about the people we lost, and stop dragging the living down with you. Let me _help you_ , Steve.” There’s an edge to her voice Steve's never heard before. Not from her. Not like this. “Let us in. This isn’t yours to bear—it’s _ours_. Your speech to Rhodes got it right; it’s up to _us_. It’s not up to you.”

Steve breathes, seeing red. Natasha holds his eye with equal ferocity.

“I owe the people of this world a service,” Steve says, forcing calm. “I owe it to them to do everything I can to bring them back, and not on the schedule of everyone else’s ability to cope.”

Natasha’s always been a tough read, but it’s hard to miss the ragged undercurrent behind her eyes. “What happened to not trading lives?”

It’d be easy to say all the things on his mind—about how it’s the principle of the thing, about the protection of life as a whole, not just his. Instead, a switch flips in his mind and all he sees is his friend, afraid.

Steve looks down the hall then back at her, mustering sympathy. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Do you want me not to try?”

Something changes in her face. Natasha shakes her head and stalks down the hall, leaving Steve without a backward glance. “Just listen to what the people around you are saying,” she says, barely loud enough for Steve to hear. “That’s all I ask.”

  


  


  


  


The shuttles take them from the hillside tower back to the palace. A pair of silent, pissed-off Dora show Steve and the others to the palace's guest quarters. 

If the Golden City is quiet, the palace is a deadzone. Steve barely notices, energy bright enough in his body to buzz. He takes the room he always took—pretended to take—when he was visiting Bucky; off the guest kitchen, at the end of the hall. He's halfway out of his uniform before the door even closes. 

He'd thought that if he took it off, shed off the persona and the ash, the sweat and the death, that he might feel better. Desperate to find the proof he’s still human underneath, he drops it fast, stepping away from where it pools at his ankles. 

All he feels is raw and unprotected. He looks back at where it sits on the floor and fights fury in a nauseating crash. 

He wants to burn it to a crisp. He wants to burn everything; wants to raze the whole world down. 

Rage like this doesn’t happen much nowadays, but he realizes dimly he used to feel this all the time. Erskine had said that power changes a man. Powerlessness—a forgotten sentiment, now buried under whatever he's learned in its stead.

The only thing that solves powerlessness is more power. Megalomaniacs have followed the same tides of fury to where exactly where Steve is now—thinking about how to solve it. Thinking that if they controlled everything, they'd never have to feel this way again.

What happens when Steve—someone who’s apparently forgotten what it's like to feel helpless—adds more power to his already considerable well? 

_The serum amplifies everything that’s inside,_ Erskine had said. _Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse._

If he _could_ wield the stones, even just one—if he was capable of it—does that alone make him right for the job?

Steve shakes his head. He can’t get bogged down in doubt, not now. He stumbles to the shower and turns it up hot as he can, bracing himself against the water until the steam turns suffocating. 

He looks at the mirror. He can’t see himself through the fog.

The dust of a thousand souls circle the drain.

  


  


  


  


Night fell a long time ago. He hadn’t noticed when.

The battlefield is quiet and bloodied. Alien corpses, ash, and weapons can be seen for miles. Steve stops dead when faced with the expanse of it. Italy had looked like this, or something like it, decades ago. 

Left unattended, the field would swallow this history up—claim it as its own—scarred in a battle that should never have graced its slopes. Addressed, the landscape would still never be the same. No human bodies remain; Wakanda has been swift in its response, even with the crown in flux.

Steve starts to cut through the field, but even for him it’s too much. He moves to its outskirts and walks around, not looking at the carnage, not caring how much longer it takes.

  


  


  


  


The village is silent. There’s a first time for everything.

He brushes the curtain to Bucky's roundhouse aside—

_—with one hand. He’d arrived just as the sun was setting, purple starlight gracing the sky. Steve had been in a hurry to get here, but he’d slowed down a bit as he approached the village just to take the scenery in._

_God, it was beautiful here. It wasn’t hard to understand why Bucky wanted to stay._

_Inside, it was as though the stars had followed. The only source of light in Bucky’s home was ever fire; Steve hadn’t understood it, and especially didn’t understand it in June, when it was as humid outside as it was possible to be. But it was hard to argue with the atmosphere it gave. Candles sat in every corner of the room. Bucky stood near the far-side table, tipping one tall candle over to light another, glancing over his shoulder as Steve walked in. He wore robes only over his lower half, exposed skin glistening in the light of the flame._

 _It was like a sweat lodge in there, but Steve didn’t care. He’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life._

_Bucky smiled as Steve entered, though only halfway. He seemed content, if subdued—and just like that, Steve’s heart sped away._

_“What took you?” Bucky asked. His hand stayed steady as the wick took the flame._

_Steve kicked one shoe off, then the other, pulling his socks off one at a time. “Had to fuel the jet.”_

_“Oh, you have a jet now.” Bucky hadn’t turned to him, but Steve didn’t care; he buried his face in Bucky’s hair, setting his nose against his neck. He took his time—smelled his conditioner, set his hands at his hips, shadowed his movements._

_“You knew that,” Steve said._

_“Forgot you’re a bigshot now.”_

_"You wanna ride around?" Steve pressed a kiss behind his ear. “I can show you if you want.”_

_Bucky exhaled a laugh and set the candle down, finally turning in Steve’s arms. “You trying to seduce me with your enormous jet?” he asked, lips close against Steve’s._

_“Depends,” Steve said, and kissed him slow. God, it was good; Bucky was warm and pliant, mouth tasting of sprigs of mint. "Is it working?”_

_“Hate to break it to you, Rogers, but I’ve already seen it, and it ain’t that hot.”_

_“I can't impress you.”_

_“You impress yourself upon me plenty as it is.”_

_“That’s—”_

_“No one who’s this much of a menace ever managed much subtlety—”_

_“You’re gonna eat these words,” Steve promised him, hands tracing down his spine._

_“Prove it,” Bucky said, and Steve had leaned him against—_

The table’s been cleared off. 

This isn't right. Someone’s been in here.

The place looks like it’s never been lived in. The candles are gone; who would take those? The blankets have been stripped from the bed, sheets taut against the mattress.

This isn’t Bucky’s home. Nothing of him is here anymore.

Steve strides forward, sick with panic. He looks for something—anything—familiar, something to hold on to. He’d thought he would find Bucky here, that he’d find some evidence that he'd lived—confirmation that Steve had found him. That they were here, together, once upon a time.

It's all gone. _He’s_ gone. The furniture remains, but the house is somebody else’s now. 

It hadn’t occurred to Steve in a million years that someone would have time to do this. He should have come sooner. 

He pulls out the crate Bucky’d used as a drawer and finds it empty; overturns the place, desperate for something he might have missed. There's no journal. His clothing is gone, myriad hair products disappeared. The cutting board with carved-out grooves to help him slice with one hand—missing. The basin that he bathed in sits clean in the corner, shoved out of sight. 

The tremors in Steve’s hands had been reduced to something ignorable over the last few hours; function over form. Now they shake badly again, aftershocks coursing through his body. The room becomes visceral, too real, somehow. This is the way he felt when Bucky disappeared in front of him, when—

        _Steve?_

—Steve had tried to re-integrate into a world without him. But he'd been here. Bucky had lived, here. Bucky—

“I am sorry.”

Steve whirls around. A woman stands—Anathi, from the village—poised in the door in cream-coloured robes. Bucky was friendly with her; Steve’s met her many times. They’ve never spoken directly, but she knew him, knew Bucky. “We required the space." 

Steve has never heard her speak English. Bucky’d stammered by in Xhosa when they talked, but she had at least smiled. Was she a friend? Would she remember him, when the ashes cleared? 

“Where did you take him?” Steve whispers, caught between terror and rage. He can't calm his tremors, hands in white fists.

Anathi stares, calm, too patient. Steve takes in a precarious breath, but before he can say more she ducks her head and pulls a wooden crate out from within the night. 

It's full of Bucky's things. Steve comes undone in seconds. His chin contorts, nostrils flaring, as he staggers forward to claim the box. “We required the space,” Anathi repeats as he takes it from her. He leans haltingly against the nearest wall. "We cleared the village by royal decree. It was not personal.”

“Shuri did this?”

“It was imperative we ready ourselves to accept the injured, as we did with your friend. This is a place of recovery. It has remained so for decades; it will remain so now. Surely you can understand.”

Everything Steve had searched for is there—Bucky's shampoos and cookware, old Western clothes folded at the bottom. His journal, thrown under everything. A novel Bucky will never finish, dog-eared page marking his place.

Steve slides down the wall, white noise in his ears. He’s not supposed to break down, but he doesn't know how to stop. 

"There is no holy ground left for mourning,” Anathi says. "Not now. We will require the space soon enough."

Steve stares into the crate as he holds it in his lap, moving some things around with a prodding finger. He can’t swallow it down anymore; tears break hot against his face, a sob wracking him through. Bucky was here. Bucky lived. Steve hadn’t imagined him.

“I understand,” he grits out. Anathi stands as though to say something else, but in the end she merely turns without saying a word. 

Silence resonates in the room, punctuated only by a wracking sob. 

Holding him there as he'd done a hundred times, Steve doesn’t move again for a long time.

  


  


  


  


A figure appears in his periphery, hours later.

Steve looks up. It's Natasha. She looks around the room, not seeing him, looking unlike herself in cotton pants and a green long-sleeved shirt.

“What’s wrong?” Steve rasps. He's still sitting on the floor. Natasha whirls around, eyes dropping fast. She looks as rough as he feels; she’d splain her arms defensively at the sound of his voice, but now wraps them tightly around her body again. 

Two years spent sharing tiny hotel rooms and a lot longer than that spent sharing a battlefield, and Natasha’s always taken up space. She’s kicked him out of bed before; she can flip him on his back in a heartbeat. She might be short, but she’s never been small. Steve wants to reach out and spread her arms, make her the right size.

“You were gone a long time,” Natasha says. She studies him, then looks away. “I was worried.”

Steve’s not sure what to say. He blinks askance, eyes hot and tired. He hasn’t been able to get a hold on it, on feeling like this. It's all rotten. He can’t bring himself to move. 

“Just needed a minute,” he lies, nasal.

Natasha nods. She looks around the roundhouse. “Is this where…?”

Steve nods.

“It's... spartan.”

“Not supposed to look like this. They…” He swallows hard against the waver in his voice, pushes at the box. “Took it down.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They need the space. For... people. The living.”

“Oh.”

She sounds appropriately gutted. At least someone understands. 

“I just need a minute,” he says again. He wipes a thumb his eyes. 

Natasha takes a short, slow walk around the room, eyes flitting from corner to rounded corner. “Tell me about him,” she says. “How he made it.”

“I don’t think...”

“That you can," she asks, when he can't go on, "or that you want to?”

“Both.”

She just stands there, looking small, arms wrapped around herself. Suddenly Steve remembers what it reminds him of—four years ago in DC, when she'd been shot. She'd had to clutch one hand to the wound to stop from bleeding out. It was the first and only time she’d ever looked like someone Steve had needed to protect. 

Now she carries another fatal hurt. Steve holds his arm out to the side, nodding her over, in case she wants a shield. 

Natasha looks at him a long time. Finally she slides down the wall next to him, ducking her shoulders under his outstretched arm. 

Bucky’s box sits snug on Steve’s other side. For a strange, fleeting second, Steve thinks that he's in good company. 

“I was worried,” Natasha says again, curling up beside him.

“Sorry.”

“It’s gonna be light soon.”

“Yeah.” He’s not ready to go. “I know.”

Natasha tips her head against Steve’s shoulder. “Tell me how he made it here,” she asks again, voice dropped to a whisper. 

Steve waits until he thinks he can. “He was warm,” he says finally, “and big, and alive. Quiet, and… careful. And it—” His voice gives out; he waits a minute. “And he only ever lit candles in here. He liked it dark, but not to hide. He just wanted…” Steve sets a shaking hand over his mouth. “Maybe it was to hide," he redirects, "I don’t know. Maybe he wanted someone to find him.”

Steve’s shirt—something he hadn’t seen in months, left in the palace after one of his wayward visits—dampens under Natasha’s temple. He wonders what she’s mourning; not Bucky. Not the way that he is.

“And did you?” she asks finally, break in her voice. “Find him?”

He presses his fist to his eyes and waits it out. "I don't know." Whatever’s in him that makes his chest heave like this, he can’t seem to get rid of. “Damn it, Natasha. I wish I knew.”

  


  


  


  


After a while, as the sun casts in, it looks like just another roundhouse. Birds sing the way Steve’s heard them a dozen times, the volume by half. 

Steve looks around clearly, Natasha dozing on his shoulder. This isn’t Bucky’s anymore. It doesn’t touch him. These walls were never what mattered to them.

He nudges Natasha gently awake, then gets to his feet, pulling her after him. He catches her by the waist when she stands—unsteady, then not. “Ready to go?"

“If you are," she says. When Steve looks at her closer, Natasha looks pale.

He stoops to pick up the crate, arm still at her back in case she needs the support. He doesn’t know what to think, looking into it: Bucky's things, but not him. “It just doesn’t seem like enough,” he remarks, abrupt. "I can’t think of what's missing. The rest of his books are from the palace; I feel like he must have borrowed more. He always borrowed more.”

Natasha shrugs, looking from the crate to Steve. “Maybe that’s kind of,” she says, gesturing, "the point. Barnes didn’t have use for a lot of… things.”

That was true.

“Maybe it’s just more of the way he… was. That there isn't much.”

For all the time Steve had spent here, ‘not much’ had been all they’d needed. 

“Okay.” His voice cracks again when he says it, but this time the sting in his eyes fades when he tries to fight it back. It's time to go. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” 

And with a final glance—an insufficient farewell—they step back out, arm in arm, into the waiting world. 

  



	4. Reunions

  


Steve’s still staring at the ceiling when he gets the call.

“Steve,” says Rhodes. “It’s Tony.”

Steve sits bolt upright in bed, suddenly alert. “What about him?”

“He’s alive. Touched down from Titan late this morning.”

Relief. Good news. Steve exchanges a groggy glance with Natasha and gestures her back to sleep. “How?” 

“Met someone there who had a spacecraft,” Rhodes says. “Funny lady, but she got him home alright. He’s in pretty rough shape; Thanos got a solid shot in, but he’s hanging in there.” A weighty pause. “Do you… wanna talk to him?”

Steve rolls out of bed, kicking pants into his hand. “Depends. Does he want to talk to me?”

“Says he’s game if you are.”

Sounds like Stark. Everything a game of goddamn chicken. “Yeah, hell with it. Put him on.”

A muffling; Rhodes’ rumbling voice. Then it's Stark breathing on the line. “Hey, Cap. Hanging in there?”

God, he never thought it’d be so good to hear Tony’s voice. Steve’s head hangs a second, smile foreign on his lips. “Still breathing. How about you?”

“I should live. _Should_. Hard to say long-term, but on the short-term I think I’d consider me lucky.”

“It’s nice to hear some good news. Welcome home, Tony.”

For a minute, Stark doesn’t say anything. Steve feels the tension loosen by an inch. “Direct call to guest kitchens,” he says, stepping out into the hall.

“Call directing,” the computer replies.

“What was that?” comes Stark’s voice from the kitchen.

“Hang on.” Steve pulls a shirt on as he walks. He and Natasha have been sharing a room out of instinct or habit, too careless and exhausted to bother with pyjamas. They’re too comfortable with each other by now, too comforted by each others’ presence to feel embarrassed. It's no different from what they’ve been doing in dingy hotel rooms the past two years. 

Except there's no Sam. 

Neither one of them talks much. It’s too quiet to feel right.

“Had to move rooms,” Steve explains. “Phones are… weird here.”

“In Wakanda. The isolationist superpower we never knew about.”

Steve puts on a pot of coffee and ignores the dangling bait. “I assume you’re calling for a reason.”

Stark seems to take a steadying breath. “Since you mention it. I just came home from my vacation on Titan. Ever been? Big, iffy gravity, one less moon lately, home of Genocidal Barney?”

Steve turns to meet the sound of Tony's voice. “What? You went to Thanos’ home world?”

“Had a good reason: met him there. Tried to get the glove off his hand, fight ensued, blah, blah, details not important. The point is that me and—what's his name—Strange?”

“Who?”

“Stephen Strange. The wizard?”

“Right, Banner mentioned him. He had the Time Stone?”

“ _Had_ being the operative word.”

“Yeah, I noticed Thanos had taken possession. What happened?”

“I'll lead with the punchline: after we saved his ass from getting the stone tortured out of him, Strange handed damn the thing over to him after Thanos asked him real nice.”

Steve stares at the ceiling. “ _What?_ ”

“I guess it’s complicated. There was a whole thing... anyway, Strange and everyone else are dust now, so it's not like we can ask him. All I know is before he kicked it, Strange did this… meditation thing, then came back saying he’d looked into fourteen _million_ different futures just sitting there—don't ask me how, because I don't know—trying to see how many times we beat Thanos. You wanna guess how many times in fourteen million we allegedly get it right?”

Steve shuts his eyes in anticipatory dread. “One?”

“One. This son of a bitch offers up the Time Stone freely, ostensibly just to save my life, then has the audacity to say ‘It’s the only way’ as he and the rest of the crew are stranding me on an abandoned planet, Kansas playing them out.”

Steve finds his stasis hard to break. “Are you implying…”

“That Thanos had to win so Thanos could lose? Yeah, pal. That’s exactly what I’m implying.”

Steve doesn’t say anything for a long time. For half a minute, he's not sure he can breathe.

“You still there?”

“Yeah," he says, forcing a breath. "I’m here.”

“Are you pissed?”

“You could say that.”

“Good. Because I’m fucking livid. I don’t know your state of affairs, but my fiancée no longer exists—”

“Neither does mine.”

“Then we’re on the same page. Let’s skip the condolences and get down to business. Rhodey says you’re trying to undo this.”

“Trying to, yeah.”

“Thank God someone’s displaying a modicum of sense.” Steve manages a tight smile. He hadn’t thought Stark would wind up on his side ever again, but he’ll take what he can get. “I want to help. Think they’d let me into the country if I asked real nice and promised to play fair?”

“I’ll talk to Shuri and her chief of staff. Or…” Steve waves a hand. “Whatever. I can’t see Shuri saying no; it’s the security angle that’s the harder sell.”

“Shuri’s the Queen now? Her brother’s toast?”

“Yeah. Temporary, but…”

“Rhodey says she’s smarter than me.”

“She is.”

“I have to meet her.” Steve’s mouth courts another smile. “Fine. You talk to Queen Smartypants, I’ll lie here and heal another day, and we’ll talk tomorrow to see where we stand. I might bring a friend.”

“Bring as many friends as you want. But, Stark—I want to be clear. I don’t really have a plan as much as I have straws for grasping.”

“But you’re doing something? You’re working toward the state of affairs where we didn’t lose Pepper and Dr. Jackass and three billion other people to a genocidal raisin?”

“Toward it, yeah.”

But Stark doesn’t seem to care about Steve's state of organization, or his trepidation. “Great,” he says simply. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  


  


  


  


Stark does call, and Steve tells him to come—which Stark must have expected, because he flies into Wakandan airspace not an hour later. 

Okoye brings Natasha and half the Dora to greet him on the Helipad. Stark walks into the lab—Steve's got to stop calling it that; it's a workspace in the palace, an office of sorts, but all the consoles and displays keep giving Steve the impression he's at SHIELD or Stark Tower—chatting up his Dora escorts, apparently unperturbed by their unwillingness to acknowledge his existence except to block him access down corridors.

“So this is a thing, huh?” Stark says, gesturing at the stone’s 3D display as he enters. But Steve doesn’t pay attention to that. He’s too busy being distracted by the sickly sight of him. 

“Jesus, Tony,” Bruce says, before Steve can get out a word. “What happened to you?”

“Bruce!” Stark exclaims. He looks to be barely standing, skin a sullen and sordid grey. “You hanging in there?” Stark steps forward and pulls Bruce into a brief hug, heavily favouring his left side. Then he surprises Steve by pulling him into the same brisk embrace. “Cap. Long time no see. Nice beard. Suits you.”

Nothing to do when someone you thought was dead turns up, Steve reasons, but to hug the bastard back. “You look terrible,” he admits, pulling back with a clap at his shoulder.

“Yeah, well,” Stark mutters, giving Steve a once-over. He’s clearly drugged to the nines, eyes dragging and glassy. “At least I’m intact.” His eyes track around the room. “Her Highness around? Wouldn’t mind talking to her about the state of this equipment. I’m not saying it’s better than mine, but…”

Steve gestures. “Tony Stark, Queen Shuri of Wakanda.”

Shuri doesn’t even look up from behind her console, though she does mutter a distracted hello. “She’s been preoccupied,” Steve explains. “The list of people she’ll break focus for has shortened. It’s not personal.”

“I don’t take it personal,” Stark says. Mostly he looks impressed. “Do I… bow?”

“Yes,” Okoye says behind him.

“No,” say Steve and Shuri in unison.

Stark turns and lowers his head to Okoye instead. “Bowing to you, then.”

Okoye purses her mouth, but Steve would swear she looks pleased.

“Tony,” Bruce says, trying to guide him by the shoulder. “Sit down, for the love of God. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Stark shrugs him off, gesturing vaguely. “I’m fine.”

“We already tried,” Natasha confers.

“I have something similar,” Stark remarks, pointing at the display as he looks to Shuri. “Yours looks… clearer. You made this yourself? How old are you again?”

Shuri finally glances up, toiling visibly with annoyance, but when she looks past Stark toward the door, her gaze is wary enough to cause Steve to turn. 

A woman with blue and purple patchy skin stands by the door, unhappily surrounded. "Oh,” Stark says. “How rude of me. Everyone, this is Nebula. Nebula, this is… not important. Nebula,” Tony announces to the room at large, “is Thanos’ daughter.”

The atmosphere in the room turns hostile on a dime. Okoye’s spear comes up to rest under Nebula’s chin; Nebula’s arm, somehow, turns into a blade in response.

“Adopted!” Stark hastens to correct. “They’re not _related_ -related. She wants to stop him, same as us.”

“I am not the same as you,” Nebula says through her teeth.

“You did not mention,” Okoye says thinly, “that your ‘friend’ was a collaborator.”

“Okay, relax,” Stark says, but he steps back again when Okoye’s gaze flits sharply to his. “Or, you know, stay tense if it makes you happy. But Nebula’s not a collaborator. She tried to stop Thanos with us on Titan; she’s been trying to stop him for years, long before we even knew he was a threat.”

“Is that true?” Okoye asks Nebula without missing a beat.

“Yes,” Nebula says, intense. But Okoye still doesn’t move. 

“It might behoove us to give her the benefit of the doubt,” Stark suggests, “given that she has information no one else does about the bastard, being as that he _raised_ her and all.”

“We cannot be so desperate for help—”

“Actually,” Steve says, interrupting Okoye, “we are. Excuse our caution," he directs to their guest. "Is there anything you can tell us that can help bridge the gap here?”

“What could I possibly tell you,” Nebula asks, “that you would believe? Let it be enough that I don’t break your spear and stab you with it where you stand.”

“Okay,” Stark says, stepping to intervene. “Maybe we could all tone down the threats—”

“Hey, Royalest Thou,” Rocket interrupts, walking into the lab in complete ignorance to the tension in the room. “Have you given any thought as to how to shield against radiation when we don’t even know what kind of radiation we’re—” He looks up before finishing the sentence, picking up on the atmosphere of the room—then shouts at the sight of Nebula. “Whoa!”

“You,” Nebula rasps.

“Is that,” Stark says, pointing, “a talking raccoon?”

“What the hell is _she_ doing here?” Rocket asks, mildly hysterical.

“We’re allied with a talking raccoon,” Tony says, “but somehow Nebula’s suspect?”

“Hell yeah she’s suspect!” Rocket says. “You know she’s like the kid of Thanos, right?”

“Thanos kidnapped me from my home planet when I was a child,” Nebula says, voice strained. “He indoctrinated me, as he did with all of his children, to work as his servant, to further his ends. I’ve wanted to kill him since before any of you knew his name.”

“Don’t believe a word of it,” Rocket says. “She’s in it for herself! Gamora was one of Thanos’ kids too, but she managed not to try to _kill everyone_!” He pauses, deflating. "Recently. Isn't that right?” he asks Nebula; but when Nebula only stares back, Rocket's ears peel down in slow, horrid realization.

“Oh,” Rocket says emptily. “Gamora didn’t make it, huh?”

Though limited in her motion by the spear at her throat, Nebula manages to shake her head. 

Suddenly Rocket frowns. “Hey, come on, get that… thing away from her face. I know this chick, she’s alright.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Some of the time. I guess.”

“She on our side?” Steve asks.

“Oh, definitely not. No way in hell. But Gamora might have mentioned Nebula had gone off to kill Thanos, months ago. I don't trust her,” Rocket says, gesturing to Nebula, “but I trust Gamora. Or... I did. As much as I trust anyone, I guess.” He throws his tablet onto the console and disappears behind it. “Nebula might hate all of us, but not more than she wants him dead.”

Okoye looks to Stark, then to Steve, who nods and gestures at her to move her spear. Okoye then looks to Shuri, who says she doesn't care. "She helps, she stays.” But then Shuri looks up and holds Nebula’s eye. “You step out of line, you take the spear.”

Nebula breathes in short bursts through her nose, but on evaluating the room deigns to nod. Withdrawing the spear, Okoye steps back into position, muttering something under her breath in Xhosa. 

“Noted,” Shuri replies in English. “Captain, you are responsible for the behavior of your guests. I don’t have time to manage petty conflict. They kill each other, I will not care except to eject them from my kingdom.”

“Understood,” Steve says tiredly. “Nebula, was it?”

Nebula bows her head only slightly. Steve takes this as a nod. 

“I— _we’re_ —trying to beat Thanos. Best idea we got is to recreate the stones and match his power. You got a better one?”

Nebula assesses him carefully. “No,” she says shortly. “He was strong before the stones; now he is all but invincible. Your plan is sound, but it is not simple.”

Steve’s eyebrows steeple. “Does that mean it’s possible?”

She seems reluctant to admit it, but finally she bows her head again. “Theoretically.”

“Uh,” Rocket says, lost somewhere behind the console. “Don’t trust that info.”

“It’s the best we got,” counters Steve.

“I, uh,” says Bruce. “I don’t want to get yelled at again, but I keep thinking that even if we manage to do all this—to recreate the stones, find a person who can wield them—” he ignores Steve’s subdued eyeroll—“wouldn’t that mean we just match his power? What guarantees that we can beat him at his own game?”

Nebula looks between them. Stark, finally, pulls out a chair and gestures her into it, though Nebula only stares at it with suspicion. “Thanos has abandoned his allies,” she says, looking among them. “He has abandoned his children, his empire, everything he had in pursuit of his goal. That makes his goal his biggest weakness. He is too arrogant to presume another could wield the stones; we have—” she sighs, as though hating the fact of it—“the element of surprise. With his most prized daughter perished, he will not suspect that another could match him. The plan is foolish, but it is also sound.”

“Thank you,” Steve says sincerely; Nebula recoils from his tone, as though finding it repugnant. “I hate to throw you into the thick of things so soon, but—”

“I am prepared for war,” she cuts in, and leaves it there.

"Then if there’s anything you can tell us about Thanos," Steve says, "anything you have about the stones... we’re gonna need all the information we can get.”

Nebula assesses him with thinly veiled disgust. "The stones will have to wait." 

But she does tell them about Thanos, and doesn't stop talking for a long time. 

  


  


  


  


Shuri eventually gets pulled away on royal business—something she submits to only with a snarl and a tightness around her eyes that suggests she’d rather be doing anything else. The atmosphere in the room palpably relaxes as Okoye and all but two of the Dora file out with her. Shuri locks the interface before she leaves with a narrow look at Stark—a precautionary measure that Stark naturally tries to override the second she leaves the room. 

“Don’t do that,” Bruce says warily, though the Dora only stand by the door with pinched looks of amusement. 

Stark prods at it until a jolt of electricity makes him shout and jump back. “Was that Thor?” he asks, shoving his hand in his armpit, looking demurely at the ceiling while the Dora choke back laughs. “Is Thor here? Was that a joke?”

“Thor’s off amassing his people and picking up the other gauntlet,” says Steve, then waves a hand at the look on Stark’s face and explains that there are apparently two. “Me and Nat were gonna try and find somewhere for the Asgardians to land while we’re stateside in a few days.”

“Asgardians?” Stark asks. “What Asgardians?”

“Asgard was destroyed,” Bruce provides distractedly, squinting at the display.

Stark blinks at him, then to Steve. “You mean our protectors? The protectors of Midgard lost their planet, and then Thanos destroyed everything?”

“Hard not to notice the coincidence,” Steve agrees.

“Seems kind of ironic,” says Natasha, throwing herself into a chair with a sigh. She’s taken to standing by Shuri for the most part, spending the rest of her time looking tiredly on as the brains try to figure things out. “If Earth is so underpowered given the rest of the realms…”

“I mean, we are,” Bruce says. “I’ve been some places, seen some things. It’s not hard to understand just how junior we are, in the grand scheme of things.”

“You are and you aren’t,” Rocket offers. He’s been dozing in a chair for a solid half-hour—an illusion he has not yet bothered to drop, talking with his eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest. “I know a guy from Earth—won a battle once with a dance contest. A dance contest! I mean, sure, maybe it turned out he was half-Celestial, but none of that negates the sheer human stupidity needed to dupe the other party into thinking—”

“I’m sorry,” Stark interrupts, stepping forward. “Did you say ‘dance contest’?”

Rocket’s expression turns wary. “That’s not some kind of sacred Terran ritual, is it? Just kidding! We in _no way_ witnessed Quill’s terrible running man—”

“Quill?" Stark asks. "As in Peter?”

Rocket sits upright, eyes narrowing. “You’re not…" He leans closer. "David Hasselhoff?”

Stark blinks. “What? No, I’m not Hasselhoff! Do I look like Hasselhoff?”

“I mean, a little.”

“I don’t—” Stark presses an affronted hand to his chest. “I’m much younger than David Hasselhoff.”

“Not really."

Tony looks to Steve for support, but he can only shrug. “I’m still not a hundred percent sure who that is,” Steve admits.

“Sure you do," Natasha says. "Baywatch. The guy with the…”

Steve perks up. “Oh, yeah. I know him.”

“You’re nothing like the Hoff,” Natasha says to Stark. 

"Thank you," says Stark, gesturing. 

“Hoff is much prettier,” says Natasha. To that, Steve points his agreement.

“Hey!”

“I could’ve been Hasselhoff,” Bruce mutters from behind them.

“When you were younger, maybe,” Natasha says.

“Okay,” says Stark, as Bruce's face irons out. “The point is that the talking raccoon knows the guy I was just stranded on a planet with.”

Rocket frowns. “You saw Quill... on Titan?”

“You first, fuzzy wuzzy. You from Earth or not?”

“Hell no I’m not from here! You think I'm from here? Please. I met Quill on Xandar. He was trying to sell an orb I wanted to steal—turned out to have an Infinity Stone in it." 

All attention turns. “Which Infinity Stone?” asks Steve.

"I dunno," says Rocket, "the purple one. Not that we knew what to do with it at the time. Hell of a drug, that thing. That kind of energy courses through you, you think you can see every molecule there is, swear to God.”

“You _touched_ it?” Steve asks, stepping forward. “ _You?_ ”

Rocket frowns. “Are all you Terrans this fuckin rude, or is this an American thing?”

Steve looks to Natasha. “All this talk about whether or not I’m strong enough to handle the thing and here’s a _raccoon_ that managed it fine.”

“Hang on,” Stark objects. “It's not _you_ wielding the stones." 

"Gotta be," says Steve. 

"No, come on. Why not Thor? He's a god and everything."

“Thor’s got a planet’s people to take care of.”

“Why not Bruce? Why not her Highness, why not Joe Missouri?”

“Because I’m the only one—” Steve cuts off and looks back at Rocket. “Maybe I’m not! I don’t know, but _so far,_ I’m the only one willing who has superhuman powers. These things are _supposed_ to turn the average mortal to bits.”

“They usually do,” Rocket admits. “Only reason it didn’t me is because Quill was there, and his half-godhood carried the brunt.”

“So we still need someone superpowered to do it," says Steve. "As it stands right now, Thor’s not on the volunteer list. Bruce is not reliable; he can’t even get the Hulk to come out right now.”

“Maybe he would if Bruce put on the gauntlet,” says Stark.

“Oh, no,” says Bruce. “No, I’m not volunteering. Sorry. I’m still not even sure I like this plan in the first place.”

“So that leaves me,” Steve concludes.

Stark narrows his eyes. “You would think that.”

“Okay,” Natasha says. “Enough. Rocket—where did that stone end up?”

“Back on Xandar,” Rocket says, “for safekeeping. Which—” he gestures—“oops.”

“You know anything else about it?” asks Steve.

“Not really. Saw it vaporize a girl; she went mad with power first, whole place exploded. It was kind of a thing. Mostly I was just happy to get rid of it.”

“Great,” Stark says, gesturing to Steve. “That’s what we need. For this guy to think even more of himself.”

“Oh, give it a rest,” say Steve and Natasha in unison.

“What happened to Quill, anyway?” Rocket asks, nonchalant. “He go trying to find Gamora? Crazy bastard. Probably thinks he can fight Thanos himself without getting his lungs torn out.”

A long silence follows. Rocket's expression falls at the look on Stark’s face. He leans to meet Nebula’s eye, but she looks only away. 

“Thanos didn’t…?” Rocket says weakly.

“Yeah,” says Stark. “Yeah, buddy. Sorry.”

“Drax?” he asks, voice cracking. “Mantis? They’re all…”

Stark presses his mouth thin. Rocket glances to Nebula for additional confirmation, but she still doesn’t look at him. "Oh," says Rocket, faintly. He gets up from his chair and slouches from the room. “Excuse me.”

Long after the door slides shut behind him, the lab stays stilled with grief. It’s Bruce who finally moves first, picking up his tablet. Natasha propels up from her chair. The rest of the room comes back to life in shambling stages, limb by limb.

“Thor said the friend Rocket lost in the snap was like a… kid, or something," Steve explains, pushing off from the console. "Surprised he held it together this long.”

“Has no one asked about how the raccoon talks?” Stark says only.

“No,” says Steve, “and we’re not going to.”

“He was an experiment in imbuing nonsentient creatures with sentience,” Nebula provides neutrally. “One of many. He is not a raccoon. Your narrow Terran outlook—“

“Alright,” Stark says, raising a staying hand. Steve notices he’s looking woozy again. “Too much information, C3PO, but thanks. Jesus,” he mutters. “If this week has taught me anything, it’s that Earth doesn’t look that goddamn bad in the scheme of things sometimes.” 

“Tony,” Natasha says. “You should sit down.”

“I’m fine." But even as Steve looks at him, Stark's pallor shifts visibly from grey to white. He holds a hand at his side, stumbling gently as he walks.

Steve sighs and grabs a chair, shoving it under Tony’s knees without a word of warning. “Nat had to do that to me earlier,” Steve tells him, clapping him on the shoulder when he crumples into it hard. “Take a minute.”

“Maybe have one of the doctors here take a look at that wound,” Natasha suggests. "Is it bad?"

“I’m fine,” Stark says; but he must really look as bad as they think, because even one of the Dora guards clicks her tongue and turns down the corridor out of sight. 

“I think you’re getting attention for it whether you want it or not,” Natasha says.

“Should have stolen more of Rhodey’s percocet,” Tony mutters, slouching over; and when he’s swept away by medics two minutes later, Steve, Nat, and Bruce all look at each other and decide it might be time for all of them to call it a night.

  


  


  


  


While Bruce gets some shut-eye, Natasha claims to have energy to burn and slips out of the palace, leaving Steve alone with Nebula. He shows her to an empty bedroom in the guest wing, then to the kitchen in case she's hungry. Unsure how to exit politely, he feels stuck standing with her as she sniffs at various foodstuffs. 

She sets down an opened bag of coffee, looking disgusted. “You will not succeed," she says suddenly.

Steve straightens, startled by the abrupt proclamation. "At… stopping Thanos?"

"At wielding the stones." She assesses him carefully. Steve hopes he will eventually stop finding those black eyes disarming. "You care. Too much. I can smell it. It is to your detriment.” 

"What does my caring have to do with anything?”

“You are these peoples’ leader?”

“It—no. Maybe in ways. Shuri’s the Queen of Wakanda.”

“That is this jurisdiction.”

“Yeah.”

“But it is not the Queen who aims to take down Thanos. It is you.”

“That's right.”

“Then you must separate yourself from them—for their wellbeing, and yours.” She picks up a date from a nearby bowl with interest, smelling it carefully. “This is… fruit?”

Steve blinks, bewildered. “Yeah.”

“Is it ripe?”

“If it’s in the palace, it’s definitely ripe.”

Nebula evaluates Steve for deceit, then bites cautiously into it, closing her eyes in apparent bliss. “What is it?”

“It's called a date.”

She takes another bite, then presses the back of her hand to stop the juice rolling down her chin. “Delicious.”

It's oddly endearing, watching her enjoy something so simple so much. She consumes the whole date only to pick up another, spitting the pit into the sink when Steve points her to it. “The Soul Stone is not arbitrarily named,” she goes on, startling Steve to attention again. “Gamora told Thanos where to find the stone, and he sacrificed her for her hubris. She was the thing that Thanos valued most.” Nebula looks at Steve, direct. “Little is known about the Soul Stone for certain, but legend rarely lies. You must prove you are worthy of your beliefs. What would you give up if it would bring Thanos down?” She inclines her head toward the lab. “Would you give them over, as Thanos would?”

Steve doesn’t immediately reply. “It always requires a sacrifice?” 

“It does. If you do not wish to give them over, you must devalue them in your own mind. Unless you value something more. In that case, you will sacrifice that in their stead. Is there?”

“How do you know this?”

"Does it matter?" 

"I don't accept it." 

Nebula besets him with a look of bracing contempt. “The stones,” she says slowly, “do not care what you _accept_. If blind belief is what you rely on, then you are not ready to lead this victory.” 

Steve feels defiance spark in his chest, but it’s intermingled with something else—a helplessness, a lingering feeling of being overwhelmed. He can put Bucky a little ways out of his mind now, but not when he's reminded of the stakes of his failure. 

“What I value most,” he tells her, low and wavering, “I’ve already lost. I’ve given up my home, my time, the things I—" He swallows. "The things that I live for. Sometimes more than once. All of them for my beliefs. Is that not enough?”

Nebula cocks her head at him in interest, but doesn't give voice to her curiousity. “According to the realm,” she says, “there is yet more to take. There is always something. I have been watching you, Captain. I have seen your care for them. It bleeds out of you. You protect this so-called Queen; you would force your friend to abandon his will to lessen his suffering. You look to the white-haired one for comfort and guidance. That is what more you have to give.” She looks away, grabbing yet another date. “Gamora’s hubris was to believe her love could not be weaponized against her. You would do well to overcome same.”

Steve leans both hands against the counter, trying to get a grip. “Isn’t the whole point moot anyway? Thanos has the Soul Stone. If that’s the only way to procure it…”

Nebula gives him a look. Steve watches as she turns her arm effortlessly into a blade and halves the date, carefully excavating the pit and depositing it into the sink. “Your Queen is only now discovering what the rest of the universe has long already been aware—that the stones are but conduits for the energy they convey. Solid form makes them easier for corporal beings to wield, but each stone can and has existed in other forms—liquid, amber, aether.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I was among those tasked with finding the stones for Thanos.” She bites indelicately into the date. “Later I continued to learn of them in an attempt to track him down. I knew that I would not break if he captured me, regardless of what knowledge I held. I only did not expect Gamora would become involved.”

“Was she loyal to Thanos?”

“ _No._ ” She says it so sharply that Steve recoils. “Gamora…” Nebula thinks before answering. “Thanos knew her weak points as he knew mine. I knew he would torture me. I did not realize he would torture her by making her watch.”

Steve's starting to understand what makes her hate Thanos so much. “I’m sorry.”

Nebula looks at him, accusing. “Why?”

“You cared for her.”

“And?”

“I’m… sorry for your loss. That's all I meant.”

She stares at him, hard. “She was soft. That is the point. And so are you. She was dead even before Thanos eliminated half of all life. Do you plan to end up the same?”

But Steve's still not buying it. “If I plan to wield the stones, I sure as hell had better be capable of more compassion than Thanos, or the universe is gonna have one more tyrant on its hands.”

Lips pursed, Nebula studies him. “Perhaps,” she admits. She picks up an orange, setting it under her nose to smell.

“You have to peel that one. Or… slice it, eat the flesh inside the rind. The exterior isn’t edible. Or, it is, but it’s not very good.”

Nebula assesses him again, like she thinks he’s setting her up for something. She nicks a piece of the skin off with her blade hand and puts it in her mouth, only to spit it out again. “What matters,” she goes on, disinterested in her own indignity, peeling the orange with her blade, “is that the stone is replicable.”

Steve hadn't expected that. “It... _is_?” 

“Mystically,” she says, "not scientifically. If sacrifice is a required component of getting the Soul Stone, likely there is a keeper of some kind to witness the ritual. He may— _may_ —then procure a new stone from the aether, whether one already exists in the realm or not.”

Steve isn’t sure where to start. “Okay—go back. This keeper… guards the Soul Stone by judging the sacrifice ritual and deeming it worthy.”

“Yes.”

“And if you complete the sacrifice, he procures a stone from this... aether?”

“Yes.”

" _How_ do you know all this?" 

"Let it be enough that I do." 

Steve gives a short sigh. “What aether?”

“It is as I was saying before. Each stone is likely a mere conduit. Whether it contains a sample of the aether it represents, or simply forms a link to the ethereal realm—”

“Represents?” Steve squints. “Ethereal realm? Are you telling me these stones aren’t even the real thing?”

“There are several origin stories of the universe,” Nebula says slowly, as though Steve is a galactic toddler. “The most likely one claims that the stones were created when the Cosmic Entities first created the realms of the universe.”

“Like the Nine Realms.”

“No. I am talking about the separation of universes by space and time. Space in our realm is continuous; we may travel within it, use it as a plane of transport. Our known realm… is a fraction of all the space that exists.” She sniffs curiously at the exposed flesh of orange, then prods it only with the tip of her tongue. After a moment of contemplation, she continues peeling. “The mass of the universe is infinite, unknowable—but our realm is finite. This was an intentional measure of safeguard put in place by the Cosmic Entities. The stones can control our realm, but our realm alone. If Thanos decides he wishes to destroy all life, you and I will cease to exist, but the billions of other realms will proceed unimpeded." She peels with added vigor, as though spurned on by anger. "The 'ethereal' realms, on the other hand, control every realm at once. An Infinity Stone is a sample or a link to an ethereal realm, but its effect is limited to this realm. Do you follow?”

“I think so."

“Each of the six aethers, the ethereal realms, grants control over a certain element of the world. Time. Reality. Sentient life. It was decided—perhaps by the Cosmic Entities—that complete control over these elements was too dangerous. They separated each one of these six aethers from each other so they could not all be controlled at once. Then they created countless other realms to hide the ethereal realms among the mundane.” She gives Steve a significant look. “No sentient creature can be trusted with the banishment of power without also creating opportunity for its reversal. So the Infinity Stones exist.”

“But why? Why make the stones, why allow someone the capability to wreak havoc on the universe to the point of its destruction?”

“Entertainment?” Nebula shrugs. “You are asking for the motives of the most powerful beings in the universe. They do it, Captain, because they can. Perhaps it is a game; perhaps merely an experiment. Realms are frequently destroyed from within. Perhaps they find it interesting to observe the different ways such destruction can transpire.” She gestures to the sky with her blade. “Millions of realms have likely already perished without our knowledge. The Entities care only for the universe as a whole. They do not care if you or I live.”

Steve exhales slowly through his nose, watching as Nebula puts a segment of orange hesitantly into her mouth. After a moment of chewing, she turns her blade back into a hand and peels another segment free using only her fingers. “I am trying to tell you,” she goes on, “that, for reasons unknown to me, there is a keeper of the Soul Stone. This keeper likely accesses the ethereal realm directly to mold a new stone into being each time someone completes the sacrifice ritual to their satisfaction." 

"So—theoretically… _anyone_ could walk up and get a Soul Stone from this keeper.”

Nebula bows her head. Steve sighs hard. “Then why the hell don’t they? Why aren’t there twelve Soul Stones out there controlling our… beings right now?”

“Who is to say there aren't?” Nebula asks, and Steve stares for a long second before realizing that was her perverse attempt at a joke. “It is unlikely,” she amends, when he besets her with a furious stare. “There are few who know of the stones’ existence to start with. There are fewer among those who would know where to find it; fewer still who would understand that there may exist more than one at a time. Yet fewer who would be willing to proceed with a ritual that asks so much." She shrugs, like that makes it clear. "The planet where the stone is kept is widely rumoured to be uninhabitable. Before someone sets foot on the planet, they must already possess complete self-disregard to risk perishing from the start. How many would make the attempt?” Nebula looks him in the eye. “How few beings have only one thing to lose, who would still be willing to lose it?” 

God, it feels so hopeless. Steve shuts his eyes and lets the waves of despair crash over him. “Thanos survived landing on the planet,” he finally says. 

“It is possible Thanos was able to endure the hazard owing to his possession of other Infinity Stones. It is also conceivable the uninhabitability of the planet is a myth—that it serves as the first element of the test, showing a willingness for sacrifice even before being asked to prove yourself worthy.”

Steve thinks a long time. He thinks about risk, about what he’s lost. What they’ve all lost. How to balance the scales.

“Okay.” Steve faces her, sighing, and holds out a hand. “Thank you for sharing all that. You didn’t have to. It helps a lot.”

Nebula looks from Steve’s hand to his face and back again. “I do not touch unnecessarily."

Steve drops his hand with the hint of a smile. “I’ll remember that.”

Nebula examines him, wide black eyes seeming to search for something on his face. “The Stone is on Vormir,” she says finally, then slowly fits the last slice of orange broadly into her mouth. 

Steve heart skips a beat. “Vormir? That’s a planet?”

“The sixth planet of Helgentar.”

“And Helgentar is…?”

Nebula rolls her eyes. “Must I do everything? Don't you have a map?”

Steve smiles, fragile. “I'll get Rocket to tell me. Thank you for telling me. What changed your mind?”

Nebula doesn’t answer at first. “You will either succeed or fail,” she says, without looking up. “That is true whether I tell you or not. You are the kind who wants to see for yourself?”

“I am.”

“Now you can.” She turns away and strides from the room without another word, their conversation apparently concluded. 

Steve looks down to see the orange peel where she's left it on the floor. “It's customary on Earth to clean up after ours—” he calls out after her; but when she doesn't turn back, Steve doesn't crouch to clean up either. His bones seeming to calcify him, Steve leans over the counter, thinking things through with his head bowed a long time.

  


  


  


  


Steve walks through the empty halls at loose ends, hoping to find someone who will distract him from the frantic feeling under of his skin. The halls seem deserted; everyone's gone to bed or has left. Alone, every minute that passes is another minute of felt failure. The fact of it echoes in his mind, in his bones. It's another minute further away from the cataclysm, another minute without Bucky and Sam, another minute without Wanda. Another minute to spend aware that his heart's been torn out of his chest and turned to ash.

The lab—the palace workspace, whatever it is—is empty except for Shuri, Okoye, and a pair of Dora guards. Shuri and Okoye are arguing in a way typical of siblings, talking over each other while the guards look on with subdued interest. 

They stop abruptly at the sight of Steve in the doorway, silencing needlessly. It's not like he speaks enough Xhosa to understand what’s going on. 

"Hello," Shuri says coldly. Steve might’ve taken it personally if he hadn’t registered how tired she looks. “No one is here."

"Stark got carted off a couple hours ago,” says Steve. “Wondering if he'd resurfaced, thought he'd be in here."

"No," Shuri says. “He wouldn't be allowed in here without me regardless."

"But… you are here." 

Shuri merely stares. 

"Message received,” Steve says, turning away. He hopes Shuri will call him back, but her voice and Okoye’s spike in the music of argument as he sets down the hall.

Steve turns toward the guest wing with no particular destination in mind, finally finding relief in the form of Stark. He's sitting on a bench in front of a broad window, looking like he’s come straight out of medical. Maybe for one of the first times ever, Stark looks to Steve like a regular man—small, even, sitting silently in a sweatshirt. Not an arrogant billionaire, not a manic inventor—just a citizen of a decimated world, as devastated as the whole sorry lot of them.

Stark’s eyes find Steve. Steve stays where he is, beholding him from down the hall. For a long moment, they remain in a standoff, neither saying anything until Stark nods him over and pulls up his feet.

“Beautiful here,” says Stark. As Steve sits down, two years of strife dissipate from view. “Whole infrastructure’s got incredible engineering. Medical care's wicked good; maybe too good. No pain, no meds. Miss the wee hazy hours of percocet, didn’t have to think so damn much.”

“Welcome to my world," says Steve. "I’ve been trying to get blackout drunk for six years.”

“Expensive hobby.”

“I had a lot of backpay to kill.”

Steve drags up a socked foot to rest on the bench, trying to think what to say. Steve probably looks impossibly strange to Stark just now, too. Strip down their armour and they’re both just men.

“So you're feeling better?" Steve asks.

“Barely an ache now. No scar. Itches a little. Won't tell me what they did. National security, they said.” Stark still cradles a hand to his side as he scoffs. “Can’t tell if I like it. Feels like there should be something there.”

“Probably helps in times of crisis, being that efficient. They probably got the whole nation back on its feet in hours, after the…” Steve gestures loosely. God, he doesn’t want to think about it. Three days ago or a thousand years, a surreal echo in the back of his mind: back when he lost everything is the recent past.

“You saw it?” Stark asks quietly. “Rhodey says you saw it... happen. The snap, or…”

“I didn't see him do it. Only Thor saw that. I saw what came... after. I guess Wanda destroyed the stone in Vision’s head before Thanos could get to it and he just… undid it. Like it had never happened, like it was nothing.” Steve looks at him. “There was no stopping him, Tony. You gotta believe—”

“Oh, I do,” Stark says, and he means it. “We almost had him too, you know, on Titan. Encountered a small hiccup, and that was before Strange handed the stone over, but I keep thinking..." He shakes his head, looking off into the trees. “We all knew what was at stake, and yet we kept making mistakes. Over and over, we made stupid mistakes, and the more I play it over, the more I think that… there was no stopping him.” He says it looking Steve dead in the eye, the truth of it like a battering ram. “No matter what we’d done… It wouldn’t have mattered. The universe had a plan, it'd made a decision; it had to happen this way. One way or another, this is how it would have gone. All of this—" he swallows hard, hand shaking in the air—"is for a goddamned _reason_.”

Stark’s anger is the first thing that’s made perfect sense to Steve in days. Among the rest of them, he’s understood some: Shuri’s withdrawal; Natasha’s intensity; Bruce’s work ethic; Rocket’s nonchalance. But the way Stark’s lip shakes when he speaks—not just with grief, but with a fury barely restrained—tells Steve it’s Stark alone who shares his wavelength.

This should never have happened. It doesn’t make sense. Fuck ‘ _happened for a reason_.’ They won’t stand for it, not while they breathe.

“We’re gonna kill that son of a bitch,” Steve says quietly.

“Yeah,” Stark agrees. “You’re goddamn right we are.”

They sit, hot-blooded, in the soup of their rage. 

Minutes pass. Outside the window, birds twitter and tweet, bidding the setting sun adieu.

"Had a talk with Nebula," Steve finally says. His voice sounds worn with phlegm and fury. “Interesting lady.”

“She is that."

“Knows a lot about… the aether? She tell you about this?”

“Yeah, might've mentioned it. Infinity Stones are but samples from the wider ethereal realms, only one stone per dimension exists, trillions of dimensions to choose from, blah, blah…”

“But there’s keepers,” Steve says. “Of the aethers—of the realms? I don't know, but they can make new stones. She mention that too?”

Stark looks at him with interest. “No, she didn’t mention _keepers_. What's a keeper?”

“I don't know, but it has some interesting implications. Apparently, more than one version of a stone can exist at a time. She thinks there’s a keeper guarding the Soul Stone—cosmically imbued with the ability to pull a stone from the soul dimension, or whatever, on command.”

Stark leans back to think. “Interesting. That is _very_ interesting. So we may not need to replicate the stones at all.”

“I don't know,” Steve says honestly. “That’s just one of six. I think I have an idea…" He shakes his head. "I don’t know enough yet. I need the SHIELD files on the Tesseract, everything they've got." Steve gestures toward the lab. "Dunno how good of a look you got at Shuri’s research—”

“Not very. What I do remember is awash in a percocet haze. Plan to hit up Bruce for information when he's awake.”

“I know you have issues with me being the one to wield the stones, but are you otherwise fine to pursue this lead?”

Stark sighs, leaning back again. “Guess I’m not strong enough to be the one to do it, which—if you tell anyone I said that, I'll sic FRIDAY on you. She has digital bees, you won't know rest for weeks. But if my admitting it will save the world, I guess my heart will go on." He meets Steve's eye, intense. "If it’s between you and Thor, I'm gonna put my chips on the bigger guy.”

“Fair enough. But if he's not volunteering, it's down to me. I’m not gonna force a guy to do it whose heart isn't in it. That's a recipe for even more disaster.”

"If the plan is to bring down Thanos either way," Stark reasons, "I can suck it up. Plus, if you get too big for your britches... digital bees.”

Steve smiles faintly. "That's a good way to punish Thanos." 

Stark snaps his fingers. " _I_ should've thought of that." 

Steve's eyes flit fast to Stark's hand. 

Stark, far from an idiot, forms his mouth around half an apology as Steve breathes, but Steve waves it off before he can even start. “Me and Nat were planning on heading stateside,” he says, just to head Tony off. “Haven't heard from Barton, plus we're both kind of climbing up the walls." 

"Good idea," says Stark. "Barton has the files on Pegasus?" 

"That's what we're hoping." 

"I think the Tesseract research was kind of early discovery quality; nothing too interesting, but hey—”

“I’ll take anything I can get.”

Stark nods, then raises his chin as he looks down the hall. “What’s the news, Romanoff?”

Steve turns to see Natasha walking down the hall, bottle of liquor in hand. “No news," she says. "Just booze.”

“Thank God,” says Stark, moving to make room for her on the bench. “Don’t suppose they have scotch in Wakanda.”

“Not that I know of, but they definitely have royal-grade rum,” says Natasha. “Good by itself, no need to dilute.”

Stark looks dubious until Natasha pours him a glass and hands it over. She must have seen the two of them sitting here; she’d brought three glasses. Reminds Steve of the time in Beirut, when Natasha'd found that 80-proof vodka and Sam had gotten so drunk that he couldn't stop laughing, just wouldn't stop— 

Steve's breath catches in his throat. Natasha looks over, but he waves her off. The rum _is_ good—sweet and woody, sharp and smooth at once. Even Stark seems impressed, assessing the volume of the glass by the window's light. 

“You guys catching up?” Natasha asks, tucking her legs underneath her.

“In a manner of speaking,” Stark says. “State of the world, dimensions, what is and is not an Infinity Stone… you know, the usual.”

“Well,” she says dryly, “still plenty of time to get down to business later.”

“I think my biggest concern is where we’re going to find information on the Infinity Stones we know nothing about,” Steve goes on. “We’ve got the Soul Stone as covered as we can…”

“We _do_?” says Natasha.

“Nebula knows... there's a lot she knows. She’s gonna be a big help going forward.”

“When’d you find that out?”

“While you were on your booze run.” He ticks one item off on his fingers, then adds another one. “SHIELD has information on the Tesseract, plus I know a bit myself.”

“Let’s hear your big idea,” Stark says. “No judgment, I promise.” 

Steve heaves a thinking sigh. “Its power can be harnessed and transferred, right? Put into weapons, without the stone being anywhere in the vicinity. I gave Howard one of those weapons back in the day, a phaser or something, to look into how it worked. But Schmidt knew how to put its energy into weapons of all sizes—made nuclear-grade weaponry with the stuff. That's why I put the Valkyrie down." 

"Of course it was," Stark mutters to himself. 

"The weapons were tremendously powerful no matter the size. People got vaporized, disappeared when they were hit by these things. In hindsight... I dunno, maybe they were kicked to another dimension. SHIELD knew this was possible; it's what they were trying to do in Phase 2 of Pegasus back in 2012. But all Nebula's talk about this 'aether' got me thinking... if some kind of essential substance can be extracted from the _stones_ , maybe there's a way to pull the same essence out of the 'ethereal realms' the stones originated from in the first place. We draw Infinity energy out of the dimensions they came from and make our own stones, just like weapons."

“Interesting.” Stark's eyes drift away, thinking, or remembering. Natasha takes the rum bottle out of his hand without his noticing. “I wonder…” 

“Hoping SHIELD's notes have something to say about it," Steve says. "They didn't want to admit their own weapon prototypes ever existed in the first place, but I keep thinking that if we can figure out how they did it, we might be one step closer to making our own." Saying all this, Steve's left shaking his head. It's hard to understand how he could've stuck with SHIELD given all those secrets. "Anyway, short of that, tracking the stones' origin seems like a good bet. That's Space and Soul covered. The Mind Stone’s in the lab; Rocket said he had info on the Power Stone, that’s four.” He ticks the fifth item off on his thumb and nods as Natasha offers him a refill. “Strange had the Time Stone, but I’m at a loss for that one.”

“I’m not,” says Stark. “Met a guy before this whole thing started, explained all this Infinity Stone stuff to me in the first place. His name's Wong, he’s… somewhere in Manhattan, I think. Maybe not anymore. He knew Strange; I can track him, get info on this thing. Assuming,” Stark waves a hand, “that he’s still alive.”

"Assuming," says Natasha, removed. 

“We’ll be stateside soon anyway,” Steve says. “If he’s still in Manhattan, we can swing by.”

“Better yet,” Stark says, “he knows Bruce. Think you could drop him off on the way to Barton’s?”

In the corner of Steve's eye, Natasha drops her gaze. She’s been trying to get hold of Clint for days, but the phone just keeps ringing without even the answering machine picking up. Either the lines are out of service in Iowa, or someone at the house unplugged the phone—which could be a good sign. It’s hard to know what to expect.

“We can do that,” Steve says. “Might be best to drop him at the compound.”

“That’s a good idea. Banner knows he’s free to use whatever vehicle he wants. SUV, helicopter... Christ. You seen the news?" Tony asks, straightening. "The city’s a wreck, absolute pandemonium. Rhodey was suiting up as I left, to act as—get this— _fire suppression_. There aren’t enough firefighters to man the trucks. You know New York—fire just keeps spreading, whole city blocks.” He looks at their stunned expressions and clears his throat. “Uh—my point is that you’re better off staying clear of the city. Might get shot down, if Homeland Security is still—”

“Stark," Steve says sharply. "Are we going to get shot down if we enter US airspace?”

“Settle down, that's not what I said. Just keep clear of major cities and stay on your radio and you should be fine. Identify yourself as Captain America if you think it’ll help.”

“Even if Captain America’s a wanted criminal?”

“If there was ever a time no one in America will care about that, it might be now. Think about flying below cloud cover so the Stark logo is visible to any jet that flies in formation, anyway. Rhodey got in fine, I got out fine; I landed a bona fide space ship at the compound, for crying out loud. No one even blinked. I’m sure you’ll have no problem.”

Steve forces himself to relax. “Alright. So we have leads to pursue.”

“That leaves what,” Natasha says, “the Reality Stone?” 

“I think that’s the only one we don't know the first thing about,” Steve says. “Thor had all this information about the Infinity Stones in the first place; I had the sense he’s been looking into them for a while. Maybe he has leads on it.”

“Should we wait to go to Clint’s until he comes back?” Natasha asks.

“Nah,” says Stark. “We’ll wait for Bruce to wake up and run it by him, but as far as I’m concerned, we’ll work the science if you get the info. Take a batphone,” he says, nodding toward the lab. “We’ll call you back if Thor lands back home.” 

“May as well get out of here in the morning, then,” Steve says, “if you can hold down the fort.”

“Better check with her Highness, but sounds fine to me.” Then Stark shoots them a narrow-eyed glance. “And, uh… depending on what’s going on on Barton farm, you might want to secure whatever SHIELD intel is still lying around in that old barn. Given the state of the nation, I feel like the last thing we need is…”

“For our enemies to take advantage,” Steve says with a resigned nod. “Yeah, we’ll check it out. Anything else you want while we’re there?”

“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

The matter settled, they fall quiet again, thinking of all the wars they shouldn't have had to fight.

After a while, Natasha passes the rum between them. They sit in burdened silence until the bottle is gone.

  



	5. From Inside the House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who find child death difficult may want to skip the early segments of this chapter. The section that begins "Clint takes one look at Steve" and all that come after are clear of this topic.

  


Stark wasn’t kidding about the fire.

The smoke had stayed distant as they’d flown into the compound: clouding in the far distance, an impenetrable wall. It was a clear day upstate, apart from the haze. Rhodey greeted them on the landing strip, looking even more tired than when Steve had last seen him.

“Hanging in there?” Steve asked, shaking his hand.

“Saving lives,” Rhodes said. He hadn’t meant it as a jab, but Steve felt it anyway. 

They spent ten minutes debriefing on the runway, and then Steve and Natasha left Bruce behind and took Rhodes’ advice on how best to fly out of the state unnoticed.

That was when the smoke got harder to ignore.

It was worst just out of the city. Some easterly wind caught it and sent it wafting directly into their flight path, to the point that they couldn’t see most of the seaboard when they looked back. The occasional helicopter dipped in and out of the immense white wall. Now, flying over Pittsburg, Columbus, Indianapolis… more helicopters. The same crooked column of wafting smoke. 

Contained within a comprehensible radius of fewer miles, it’s a hell of a lot easier to understand what they’re looking at. America’s medium-sized cities are on fire, too.

“I don’t understand,” Steve mutters.

“Planes falling,” Natasha says. “Cars crashing. Factory equipment running unattended. People cooking, disappeared. Felled telephone poles; loose wires; bad electrical not getting fixed. Plus the usual human anarchy—looting, gunfire, probably molotov cocktails for old time’s sake.”

“Half the world disappears, so people light fires?”

Natasha gives him a cynical look, propping her legs over the arm of her chair. “You know they do.”

Aircraft, military and otherwise, circle each city as they pass by. If the people are in anarchy, maybe the government’s trying to do something to quell that down. 

But as they fly on, keeping low to stay clear of radar, Steve can't help but wonder if those same aircraft aren't halfway to blame for the smoke in the first place.

  


  


  


  


Homestead sits miles from any town, so the air is clear when they set down. Steve and Natasha spend a minute covering the jet in branches, but the job is haphazard; Natasha’s head keeps turning to the house.

The farm looks normal from the outside. A tricycle sits in front of the house; there’s a truck in the drive, flag fluttering at the door.

But it's still. There's no sound. The front door’s unlocked;—the first active indication something’s not right. 

From the glance he gets from Natasha, it seems Steve’s not the only one with a bad impression. Lurking in the threshold, they venture in only when the pull of dread becomes too much to bear. 

“Hello?” Natasha calls. There’s no waver in her voice, but Steve still hears the apprehension. “Clint? Laura? Anyone home?” 

The living room is the same graveyard of normalcy: toys strewn, bowls visible on the kitchen table—from breakfast, maybe. Steve steps through to investigate, Natasha weaving the other way. Only two bowls, full of milk and cereal—abandoned, half-finished. Boxes of cereal stand open on the table. 

The milk has congealed, like it's been there for days.

Steve’s dread turns solid. He leans, free hand resting at his mouth.

There’s no ash. The chairs sit clean. Light pours incandescent through the window. Dust of a regular kind, transparent and bright, dances in the sunbeams. 

Natasha pushes through the dining room to find the bowls. She takes one look and turns away, fingers at her lips. “We have to clear the upstairs,” she says, quiet, walking out as briskly as she'd walked in. “Clint?” she calls. “It’s Nat. Are you there?”

Steve follows, one eye trained over his shoulder. Natasha touches her hip as she starts up the steps, reaching for a gun that isn’t there. 

There’s nothing here to threaten them. They both know that. This thing just keeps chasing them down.

On the landing, Natasha nods Steve silently to the hallway’s right side. Slowly, they clear the rooms, pushing creaking doors open to emptiness. Lila’s room is clear; one bathroom clear, the nursery empty. No sign of ash anywhere.

Natasha's taking her time emerging from the master bedroom. When Steve walks in to find her, she’s crouched over carpet, hands in the dust.

Steve's heart pounds. He steps swiftly forward, led by instinct. She shouldn’t touch it; she shouldn’t touch it. He pulls her arm back, but she wrenches it free again. Steve had done the same with Bucky—run his fingers through him, and he hasn’t slept since. No one should have to run their hands through the dusted remains of someone they love. He wants to save her from it, wants her not to have to carry this too.

She doesn’t respond when he tries again to move her away. “One person,” she murmurs after a while. “Adult. Maybe one and the baby. I don’t know.” She rubs her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Nathaniel’s three now. I haven’t seen him in months. How big is a three-year-old?”

“Natasha.”

“Like three feet? Three years old, three feet tall, that sounds right.”

“I don’t…” Steve shuts his eyes, lump in his throat. “There’s no math that’s gonna—”

“You didn’t find anything like this in the kitchen, right? I didn’t check.”

“It’s been days. We don’t know—”

Natasha just pushes past him, out of the bedroom.

Steve hangs back, ensconsed. This feels impossible. They can’t keep doing this, they can’t keep taking stock—

Natasha’s murmuring voice floats out to him through the hall.

Steve's fingers grasp against the doorframe as he swings out of the room, following her voice into Cooper’s bedroom. 

Slouched on the floor—Clint. Whole, at least in form. Natasha hoists him up to something like sitting, hands fisted in his shirt. A bottle of vodka sits empty on the bedside table. She must have just taken it away from him. 

“Barton,” she says, grabbing his face in her hand. Clint looks semi-conscious, fighting to focus his eyes. “Barton, look at me. Where is everyone? Is there anyone who needs—”

“Natasha?” Clint says, slurring. He grasps a hand at her arm. “Nat—Natasha?”

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s me and Steve, we’re here. Where are the kids? You have to tell me—”

“Natasha, is that you?”

“Focus,” she says, holding firmly at his jaw. “Focus on me. Where is everyone? Where are the kids? Is there anybody who needs taking care of?”

It only takes Clint’s hazy expression and barely-withheld sob for Steve to get the picture. “No,” Clint says—and just like that, Steve sinks to his haunches, bowing his head. “Gone. All gone, they’re—” Clint splays a hand against Natasha’s face. “Are you real? Are you here, are you—I thought I was alone.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything. As though her strength is being sapped from her, she turns slowly on the balls of her feet and sits hard on the floor, pulling Clint after her. The pair of them are a capsizing boat; Clint follows in blind trust, burying his face against her gut, fingers rending in her clothes, body contorting in wordless agony. 

“I’m here,” she mutters, fingers soothing in his hair. “I'm here. You're not alone.”

  


  


  


  


Steve doesn’t last long in there. Eventually he rises to his feet, tremors surfacing until he forces them back down. 

“You want anything?” he asks Nat, relieved when she asks for a pitcher of water. Something he can do. He fetches it and a pair of glasses from the kitchen, turning away fast from the weight of Barton's grief. “I gotta work," he says, squeezing her shoulder and hoping she'll understand. "Key in the kitchen, d’you think?”

“Try that,” she tells him, matching his soft cadence. “It’s a real vault, though; probably not a literal key. It might be hidden, might be a code, might be fingerprints or vocal recognition. Fury might—” She shuts her eyes. “Fury might be the only one who can open it."

Steve’s brain files through the possible options. If Fury’s alive, he’s definitely not here. He’s probably not going to be easily found. “You care if I force my way in?”

“If you can,” Natasha says, then shrugs. “Have at.”

Steve sees what she means by 'a real vault.' Hidden behind a tractor—those keys he found pretty easily—the SHIELD vault is unfortunately lined with reinforced steel. The door itself looks like it needs professional safecracker to get into. 

Steve stares it down, then plies impotently at the sides with his fingers. He rifles through the list of people he knows that would be able to crack a safe. Clint must know how to get in, if no one else does. Nearly an hour has passed; maybe he’s calmed down enough to talk. 

Steve returns to the house. The pair is sitting just where he left them. Clint seems to have fallen asleep; Natasha’s still on the floor, legs outstretched, head tipped back. One hand is set across Clint’s back, other resting over her eyes.

“What now,” she rasps, before Steve can say anything.

“Clint would know how to get in,” Steve mutters, hanging in the doorway. “Right?”

“Probably.” She gestures without raising her head. “You want to wake him up and ask him about SHIELD files right now?”

Steve evaluates the situation, then steps silently out again. The prospect of waiting in helpless solitude for Clint to recover makes Steve’s fingernails sink into his palms. There’s got to be another way. Laura must’ve had a contact list—major SHIELD hitters to get in touch with in case something went south. 

Steve ventures back into the master bedroom. There’s a phone on the bedside table. It doesn’t respond when Steve turns it on, but of course it wouldn’t. It hasn’t been charged in three days.

He plugs it in, then stands in the middle of the room. Sun of the late morning casts in, rectangular and warm. Steve used to think about a place like this. First time he’d come here and all Steve had thought about was whether Bucky ever would have settled down, if things had been different. He’d stood in the middle of the Bartons’ front porch and looked out over the pastures—perfect for horses. Maybe Bucky would have thought so. He’d done one summer working at the police stables in the ‘20s and loved horses ever since.

In the end, he got his farm life. Goats instead. Steve never would have picked it for him, but at least he’d been—

Ash clings foully to strands of grey carpet. Steve had wished Bucky’d died indoors, but now he’s glad he didn’t. He wouldn’t have wanted this. What would Steve have done? Would he have swept him up, kept him somewhere? It’s better that he—

      _“Trees without gunfire. Kind of a novel idea, don’t you—”_

—died somewhere that he liked to be. Outside among life.

Half of it dissolved in an instant.

Steve rips the charger out of the wall and takes the phone downstairs. He plugs it into the kitchen outlet, standing there for a while instead, clenching his fists against those stubborn tremors. 

Bowls of milk, still sitting half-full. Steve can't stand it. He puts them in the sink, rinsing them out. The water pressure’s too high; the tap stream sets the bowls on their sides, splashing up against his shirt.

Steve stares at the knocked-over bowls, then goes outside. The phone doesn't need him to be there to charge. He stands on the porch—those pastures again.

The vault, in the barn. A good way to solve a problem is to run a vehicle into it. Clint's truck doesn’t look sturdy enough to break a steel vault, but maybe the tractor could manage it. Pull a wall off or something. 

He’s not above flying the Quinjet into it. That probably countermands the point of preserving the files. They might catch fire if he did something that extreme. They’re supposed to be here protecting information, not—

He has to undo this.

_Can he undo this?_

The phone turns on when Steve goes back in the house, but all that means is that he’s stuck on the passcode. A calendar catches his eye on the wall; Steve tears it down and leafs through it, trying every birthday combination he can find. How many digits is a phone password now? Christ, everything has to be locked away in this day and age. How many things will the world never get into, its keyholders disappeared?

He thinks of Bucky’s journal, shoved in his bag back in the Quinjet. Steve’s been carrying it with him, but he can’t bear to crack it open. It’s a comfort just to have it, to know that he lived. To pull his fingers along the edge of his words.

Steve tosses the phone back onto the counter and sinks into a chair, fingers rending in his hair. 

Clint’s still his best bet. He just has to wait.

  


  


  


  


Clint takes one look at Steve where he’s lying on the porch swing and asks him who the hell he is.

“Guess the beard throws people off,” Steve deadpans, forcing himself to sit. He'd been trying to polish off whatever liquor in the house remained. Creme de menthe is unpalatable by itself, even watered down. The 'bullheadedness' of the endeavor, as Bucky would have called it, at least distracted him from haunting grief.

Clint grunts. “Yeah, I see it now. Christ. You look worse than me.”

Steve looks to Natasha for judgment, but she shuts her eyes like she doesn’t want to get involved. “Clint says he can get us into the vault,” she offers instead.

“Anytime you’re up to it…”

“No time like the fucking present,” Clint says, and with that they set across the lawn. “Haven’t been in there a while. Fury…” Clint waves a distracted, still-drunken hand. There is _no way_ Steve looks worse than Clint. “Cleared out the place—everything but the vault—few months ago. Underground training facility, vacated. Dunno why; he didn’t seem to want to answer questions. Hill was here. It doesn’t matter.” He gestures toward the barn. “Need two people with the right clearance to put two keys in and give vocal identification. Stupid system for times like these. Fury left both keys with me, but both your clearances were wiped after you became criminals, if you ever had it. We didn’t want the system recording you, or sending your data, or… whatever. So I dunno if this is even gonna work. If Laura was here it’d be different, but…”

Clint trudges on across the field, then holds one of the keys out to one side. “Dunno if it’s gonna work,” he says again, voice low.

Steve takes the key. When they get into the barn, Clint manifests a fingerprint reader out of the wall and scans his thumb against it. Two keyhole slots seamlessly open. “Count of three,” Clint says, gesturing Steve toward it. “One, two—”

“Authorization registered: Barton, Clinton Francis,” croons a familiar, cool voice. “Secondary authorization required. Secondary registrar, scan thumbprint for verification and prepare vocal confirmation.”

Steve swears softly, doing as he’s told. He’s barely got his thumb on the console before the system offers a negatory sound. “Authorization not recognized. Access denied.”

“Yeah, you’re not even in the system,” Clint says. He shuts his eyes, leaning temple against the cool steel door. “Sorry, guy. Nat, you want to give it a shot?”

“Sure.”

“System, reauthorize,” Clint commands; the system chirps its affirmation, then they turn the keys again.

“Secondary authorization required. Secondary registrar, please scan thumbprint for verification—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Natasha mutters, scanning her thumb. The result is the same: a negatory sound, access denied.

Steve presses his fingers into his eyes. “System, initialize emergency protocol,” Clint says wearily.

“Emergency protocol initialized. What is the nature of the emergency?”

“Major apocalyptic event, personnel on Earth limited. What is our recourse for gaining entry?”

The system doesn’t respond for a moment. Then—“No input analyzed.”

Clint winces his confusion. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

But Natasha straightens and nods, suddenly confident. “I got it. System—initialize emergency protocol.”

“Emergency protocol initialized. What is the nature of the emergency?”

“Override order Niner Alpha Eight Four.” Then, with measured timbre, Natasha spiels off what sounds like a poem in Russian—two verses, from what Steve can tell, the only words he can pull out in accented Latin.

Then Natasha stares at the wall and breathes. Finally—

“Repeat vocal authorization.”

“Romanova, Natalia Alianovna.”

The vault door unseals, then slides slowly open. 

Natasha looks to Clint and then Steve, some long-missed tilt gracing the planes of her mouth. “Thank you, Fury,” she mutters as she steps into the vault, leaving Steve and Clint to follow.

The door shuts automatically behind them. Clint, spinning around in place, groans. “Aw, you gotta be kidding. There’s no handle on this thing!”

Apart from locking them in, the vault is more or less as Steve expected. A mobile storage system—shelves packed with files spanning floor to ceiling—takes up the majority of the cramped space. Natasha, seeming unconcerned about the locked door, steps forward and starts rotating one of the wheels, pushing the leftmost of the shelves as close to the door as she can. “We’ll look at these files later,” she says. “Pretty sure that door’s on an hourlong lock, or maybe stays shut until we crack the hatch. Better to figure out how to get through ASAP so we can—you know—not kill each other before we get fresh air again.”

“What hatch?” asks Steve.

“It's in the floor,” Clint says distractedly, running his fingers along the seams of the door. "On the other side of the... things."

“The important files are hidden in the other section,” Natasha explains. “Might take a trick to open.”

Steve understands now why she's moving the shelves. The two of them would know better than anyone how SHIELD operates, he supposes. “How did you know Fury left you an override?” Steve asks, stepping forward to help.

“No matter who wins or loses,” she says casually, watching the shelf shift slowly to the side, “trouble still comes around.”

She doesn’t explain the remark. Steve exchanges a glance with Clint, but he only shrugs and keeps looking for a way out.

The last shelf gets pushed finally to the side. “Hatch should be there,” Clint says idly, glancing where he’s pointing—but then he double-takes. “Uh. Hatch should be there? Hatch _should_ be there…”

“Natasha.”

All three spin fast toward the source of the voice.

A projection of Fury’s face appears on the vault’s locked door. “Sorry to lock you out,” Fury says. As though orchestrated, their shoulders relax in unison; they'd all been reaching for weapons they don't have. Fury probably made this recording years ago, when the vault was getting built. “These protocols are selective for a reason. I need to explain the situation before you choose to let anyone in with you. You don’t have to believe me; all I ask is that you listen.

“If this message is playing, then you had to use the override," Fury goes on. "If you had to use the override, I gotta assume that something’s taken me out—that, or I’m otherwise indisposed. In that case, you’re gonna have to take my word at face value. 

“At the end of this message, the door to the secondary vault will unseal and give you unfettered access to the sum total of SHIELD’s research over the last seventy years. This includes SSR files; CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security files we’re not supposed to have; info on our stealth technology that has, until now, never been released; and a few thousand files salvaged from behind hidden firewalls after the Hydra crisis, among other things."

Fury spreads his hands in apology. “I can’t know what you’re looking for. If you’re in here instead of out there, I gotta assume it’s bad. I have long believed that Earth as we know it is running down a clock. I’ve been waiting for the sky to break open again since the day Thor graced our presence. You have to understand that everything I’ve done has been in preparation for that day. 

“If we want to protect our own sovereignty on Earth as a people,” Fury says—“if we want a fighting chance at being the kind of species that doesn’t have to nuke itself just to get rid of the enemy on our shores—then we have to operate under cover conditions. That’s what this vault is for. That’s what this facility is for. It's why I plan to abandon it in a couple of years. If you’re about to break that cover, about to weaponize these files, I implore you to consider _very carefully_ the repercussions of what you're doing. I buried this intel because it’s better off buried. The more secrets we have under our belts, the more able we’ll be to undermine the threat when it gets here. It’s a hell of a lot harder to break defenses that people don’t know about. Bear that in mind.”

Steve’s palms have turned clammy, a stone formed in his gut. Being trapped in a bunker with deadly information—he's been here before. He'd sooner not be again.

“I still can’t tell you everything,” Fury goes on. “I’m sorry to have to burden you with this at all. I hope you never have to see this message. I’m trying to handle this delicately, without dragging you into a situation beyond reasonable scope. But Natasha—no matter the scenario, no matter what you're trying to do, you need to make sure—” Fury hesitates, just for a second—“that Captain Rogers is what you think he is, and stay open to the possibility he is not.” 

Natasha and Clint turn to Steve in eerie unison. Steve, dumbfounded, can only stare back.

“I know you trust him after what went down last year, and I’m glad for that. Nothing gives me more joy than to see two of my most guarded agents finding trust in each other. But you've still got to trust in yourself—maybe now more than ever—to understand what you’re seeing. Look Rogers in the eye and make sure that you recognize what you’re looking at, because on the day you don’t…” Fury’s gaze hardens. “That’s when you know things have gone off the rails.”

Natasha clutches firm fingers at his chin, eyes searching his. “What is he talking about?” she asks, low.

“I don’t know,” Steve says, honest. “Natasha, I have no idea.”

Natasha stares, gaze intense; but she must find what she’s looking for, because her hand turns soft at his jaw, fond, before dropping. “He’s probably there with you now,” Fury's saying, “along with Barton and Hill and Wilson and God knows who else. I won’t say more; I'm sorry for that, too. You won’t find files expanding or explaining. I just need you to trust me. Rogers may still serve as a valuable ally. Like I said—sometimes unpredictability is an asset.”

Fury raises his chin, then looks at the camera a long while. His gaze falls slowly, like there’s something he’s trying to decide whether to say. “Just stay safe, Natasha,” he finishes, finally. “I know you will. It's what you're good at.”

Then the projection shuts off into steely silence. Steve hears the slow hiss of air before and behind him—the door cracking open, the vault maybe doing the same.

“Uh," Clint says, turning slow to Natasha. "What the hell was that?”

Natasha's eyes hang on the door a long while. “I don’t know." Then, without glancing at Steve, she stoops to open the hatch where it's popped ajar.

“Nat?” says Clint. “Shouldn’t we… vet the guy?”

“Who, Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“I just did.”

Clint's gaze flits over. "That's it?" 

“What would I gain from betraying you?” Steve asks.

“I followed mission directives,” Natasha says. A ladder leads down into darkness, until her feet dangle down; then lights flicker on below. “All Fury said was to look him in the eye and to trust my gut, which I did. So it’s settled.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little—”

“Nope.” Natasha jumps down into the vault. “Steve, you coming?”

“I…” He’s not sure where to start. “Fury just implied I’m a traitor. Are you sure you want to—”

“That’s not what he said,” says Natasha. “You want to hear it again?”

“No, but don’t you think—”

“Steve,” she says flatly, looking up at him from within the lower vault. “A year before he made that message, Fury trusted you with his life. I don’t know if you noticed the coding in what he said, but what he had was a _hunch_. He didn’t have evidence. He didn’t say anything clear.” Then—to Steve’s befuddlement—Natasha cants her eyes, fleeting, over to Clint, like his presence is an imposition. “I have bigger things to worry about than a hunch Nick Fury had three years ago. Don’t you?”

Steve just shakes his head, at a loss.

“Are you who you say you are?” Natasha asks.

“Yes!”

“I trust you. Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then we’re square.” After holding his eye for another long, confusing second, Natasha disappears back out of sight. “Now are you gonna come help me or not?”

Steve exchanges a glance with Clint, who gives him a weary once-over before shrugging, like he can’t find it in him to care either way. 

Steve sighs and hops down into the vault after her. “Just as long as you don’t think I’m gonna lock us all in here or something.”

“Oh, God,” Clint says, hopping in behind. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“No saving the world if we’re all locked in a vault,” Natasha says sensibly, handing Steve a stack of folders; and that logic, at the least, is hard to argue with.

  


  


  


  


SHIELD’s files are more extensive than Steve imagined, and the lower vault much less organized than up top. He can’t shake the impression that someone wanted pretty much everything in here to be difficult to find—or that someone had rummaged through the files already, removing all traces of whatever it was they didn’t want Natasha to track down.

The afternoon straight through to the evening is spent sorting folders into piles: first by decade, then by subject matter. It becomes clear why Fury warned against getting bogged down. Steve’s eye hangs for too long on plans for weapons of mass destruction, folders piled high on the subject in every decade except the 1990s. 

Pegasus was far from the first time SHIELD had tried to create weapons with the Tesseract as a power source. It was just the first time they tried to do it under the command of the World Security Council. Before Pegasus, they seemed to be operating under their own command. They'd run experiments on the Tesseract every decade since it was found in the late '40s, the early tests led by Howard Stark, allegedly in the interest of constructing weaponry for a ‘clear edge over the Soviets.’ 

“I’m glad I didn’t live through the Cold War, aren’t I?” Steve mutters, sitting miserably in front of the 1960s.

“I think you were doomed to be disappointed,” Natasha agrees.

Between the two of them—Clint having long since muttered something about food and not come back—they manage to build a pretty solid stack of files on the Tesseract. When they finally look up again, night has long since fallen, their only light source the fluorescents above.

Exhausted, they sit wearily in their respective corners. They’ve made good progress, but the Pegasus pile is huge by itself. They haven’t even begun a deep dive of details. It’s going to take them days to get through it at best.

“You want to explain to me what Fury was talking about?” Steve says, breaking the silence as they stare the folders down.

Natasha shuts her eyes, like she wishes he’d forgotten. “Not really.”

“You know what he meant. You didn’t want to say it in front of Clint.”

“I don’t want to say it in front of you, either.”

“Natasha,” Steve sighs. “It would be nice to feel secure in the one—” He stops, staring hard. “Are you gonna be constantly watching your back with me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Natasha shifts with a sigh, rolling her head against the wall. “He made that message three years ago. He couldn’t have predicted what happened—with Barnes. With Zemo, Siberia, and me finding out.”

“Finding out?”

Natasha holds his eye a long time. “Remember right after—the Raft, after we left Wakanda the first time,” she says. “We went back to Siberia, then to St. Petersburg, trying to track what was left of Hydra.”

“Yeah. And found nothing.”

“Not exactly.”

Realization sinks in. “You found something on Hydra... and didn’t tell me?”

“It wasn’t about Hydra, exactly. Not about its present. I found references to… the serum, to the Winter Soldier project. Specifically to the five additional soldiers—”

“Natasha."

“Let me finish before you bite my head off. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Then, or now?”

“Both. Hear me out. I had reasons for not giving you this intel. I couldn’t tell at the time if it was fake, for one thing. Hydra’s been known to plant fake information; this could have been one of those times. The whole thing sounds absurd. I didn’t want to give you new reasons to suspect Barnes of anything untoward—”

“It’s about Bucky, and you hid it from me?”

“Are you letting me finish or not? It was _unsubstantiated_ , but given what we found today…” She sighs. “The more I look through these files from the ‘80s and ‘90s—the same period as what I found in St. Petersburg—the more I think it might have been true. Fury was coming up the ranks through SHIELD around the same time; there’s reason to think he can lend this information some credibility—”

“What,” Steve says stiffly, “ _information_?”

“The serum,” Natasha says. “How they made it.” The tip of her finger lands on top of the nearest Tesseract pile. “I think there’s reason to believe that the working serum—the one that you and Barnes got, the one that everyone's been trying to recreate since—was made from the Tesseract’s energy. That's how it infuses, how it…” She gestures at him, like his body proves the point. “Powers a person up.”

Steve searches her face for indication of deceit. “That’s impossible."

“Why?”

“Erskine made my serum. He never saw the Tesseract.”

“Are you sure?”

“He was forced to make the serum for Schmidt, who was obsessed with this mythical—” He gestures at Natasha’s files on the Tesseract. “But at the time that he told me about it, Erskine still believed it was a myth.”

“Are you sure? Or did he tell you he believed that just to keep you on track?”

Steve’s not sure what to think. 

“We know Schmidt got the Tesseract,” Natasha goes on, “but we don’t know when. If Schmidt had it, extracted its essence or aether or whatever, and had Erskine create the serum with it so he could wield the Tesseract without getting hurt…”

“No,” Steve says. “Erskine was smuggled into the United States as a refugee. It’s not like he brought a sample of the Tesseract with him to give to me.”

“I’m saying it’s possible. The timelines overlap. The Hydra files I found in St. Petersburg, the ones analyzing the serum that Barnes stole out of Howard Stark’s trunk in '91, found it gave off radiation consistent with the WWII weapons you were talking about with Stark the other day.”

“But Howard remade the serum." 

"And who had the Tesseract in 1991?" 

Steve stares. “There’s nothing in here about it,” Natasha says quietly. “I looked. You’re welcome to look too. Turn this place upside-down if you want, but—” She points to the ceiling, where the vault door showed Nick Fury’s face—“if this is what Fury was trying to warn me about—if this is why he thinks you can't be trusted, because you have the Tesseract in you—then I'd bet bullets he kept the files on the serum out of here to erase any certainty about it. He wanted me to trust my instincts, so I don’t think we’ll find them. I’d be surprised if they even exist anymore.”

Steve pushes to his feet and paces. “This sounds—" 

"I know." 

"I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either.”

“Why be so cryptic?" Steve asks. "Why keep that information secret in the first place? Why is he warning you without offering proof—”

“I can think of a few reasons,” Natasha cuts in. “If SHIELD was trying to re-create the serum again in more recent history...” She raises her hands at the look Steve gives her. “I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t had the first thing to do with SHIELD in four years. You heard Fury up there—‘Everything I’ve done is to keep Earth safe.’ Do you really think they’re above it?”

“No,” Steve mutters, running fingers through his hair. “I don’t.” 

“If they were trying to create a new batch of supersoldiers, he wouldn't want anyone getting their hands on the formula. Given the lack of files we found, even though we _know_ Stark created it again, I think it’s reasonable to assume that’s what Fury was warning me about. The degree of the Tesseract’s power, and the fact that every other person who was given the serum _except for you_ turned out to be a murderer, might have made him worried that anything we do with the Tesseract is gonna trigger some... effect in you. Like the Hulk, or something.”

“That’s insane,” Steve says flatly. “I’ve been around the Tesseract more than anyone outside of SHIELD, it’s never—”

“I don’t think he understands it. I think he’s afraid of it. All that talk about aliens pouring out of the sky and almost nuking New York makes me think that he knew the Tesseract was going to be somehow involved in Earth’s undoing, and that he didn’t want to risk in putting you within ten feet of the artefact that he thinks made you.”

“Is this another backhanded attempt to get me not to wield the stones?”

“He left that message three years ago, Steve. I don’t think he knew wielding the stones was a thing that was possible.”

Steve stares. It’s not Natasha he's fighting. “You don’t think I’m a threat to you,” he confirms, forcing his fists to unclench.

“I think you’re the least of my concerns,” she says tiredly.

For some reason, that puts a smile on Steve's face. Natasha, if fragilely, smiles back. “I didn’t want to tell Clint because he has enough on his mind,” she explains. “I haven’t even told him the full scope of the plan.” Then she looks up at him, jaw set. “Fury wanted me to trust my instincts—and I am. I trust you, Steve. Whether it made you or not, I don’t think the Tesseract is gonna do a damn thing to you we haven’t already accounted for.”

Steve chews this over. "Then we're on the same page." 

Natasha smiles again. She looks so damn tired. They've done enough for today. He holds out a hand to pull her to her feet. “Let's go eat something," he says. "Find out what happened to Barton.”

“What _did_ happen to Barton?”

“Maybe he can’t get the vault open again.”

Natasha tuts. “Terrible design." 

“What was that poem about, anyway? The one that got us in here.”

Natasha takes a second to think. “Don’t leave the room. Let the room alone imagine how you look. Not thinking means you’re still alive…” She waves a hand, then winces. “Bad translation. I don’t know it in English.”

“Sounds depressing.”

“Not really. Brodsky left the room and lived.” She slips up the ladder and into the night. “Mostly it’s a good reminder not to get bogged down.”

  



	6. The Sun Somehow Still Rises

  


### May, 2017

“You don’t remember.” 

Steve brushed a kiss at Bucky’s ankle, fingers curling around his heel. “Nope.”

“You saying it didn’t happen?”

“I just don’t remember.”

Bucky squinted at him, shoving his foot gently in Steve’s face. “You’d just rather make time than admit I punched you in the face.”

“You didn’t punch me in the face.”

“We were in an alley, nineteen-forty… one. Maybe ’39.” Bucky frowned, whole body going rigid, but he seemed to shake it off a second later. “Later we were in an apartment, not ours, one room. Barely anything. You—kept trying to leave, had a suitcase.”

Steve really stared at him then. “That I _know_ didn’t happen. Sure you’re not thinking of someone else?”

“Yeah, Rogers, I’m confusing you with one of my legions of admirers.”

“You say that, but you had 'em.”

“I didn’t want ‘em. It was you, I kissed you.”

“You _kissed_ me. I thought you punched me.”

“That too. But you were leaving because I punched you, or…” Bucky frowned again. “Something.”

Steve rested his cheek against Bucky’s leg, reaching to touch whatever part of him he could. “I don’t remember you punching me.”

“I swear it, Steve—”

“And I definitely never left you. I would have remembered that.”

Bucky gave a long, still silence. “You’re not… shitting me,” he asks slowly.

“Bucky. Of course not. I know how important the truth is to you. I wish I could help, but…” He shrugged. “Maybe I was sick and it’s lost to fever.”

“You really don’t remember.”

“I really don’t.”

Bucky set his mouth in understanding, but the tension didn’t resolve. He still sat rigid, not even pushing Steve away when Steve dragged his lips up the line of his calf. 

“Are you gonna pay attention to me?” Steve murmured.

“No.”

Steve exhaled hard, burying his face in the bed. Bucky wasn’t gonna let it go until he got some resolution. “Can you give me more details?”

“Alley… off Park. Later a flophouse, I don’t know where. But you had a suitcase, I wouldn’t let you leave. I had you by the sleeve like you had me by when I decked you—you hit the ground, nose busted, blood—”

But Bucky stopped abruptly, face moving from conviction to dread in the time it took for Steve to blink.

Steve grasped gentle at Bucky’s thigh. “Hey.”

“You’re right,” Bucky muttered. He looked away and set his jaw. “I must have been thinking of someone else.”

Bucky could offer a lie quickly when he needed to, but they were rarely convincing. Steve watched him, trying to decide how hard to push. “You kissed someone else in a flophouse?” he finally said. 

“No.” Bucky pushed a foot at Steve’s shoulder again, but it was half-hearted. “Dunno what that was. But the alley… wasn’t you, I guess.”

“Who then?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

A silence fell, precarious and familiar. Bucky stalled for time with deflection, mostly, talking until he could figure out a way to satisfy Steve’s curiosity without actually telling him whatever he was trying to protect him from. But once in a while the deflection opted into heady silence, a telling kind, tense and uncertain, foreshadowing careful half-truths—like now.

Steve squeezed Bucky's leg, aiming to soothe. “Long time ago.”

Bucky shut his eyes, rubbing his fingers hard at his brow between his eyes. “Guy I punched was your size,” he murmured. “Only you weren’t tall back then. Whole time I was imagining—” Bucky gestured, indicating his height. “Stupid. Things I forget.”

“Not stupid.”

“It’s all just…” He never said what it was. He stared off into the corner of the room, teeth clenched, fingers folding into a fist.

Steve looked at him a minute, then set his lips back to the dimple of his knee. Bucky’s legs had always been transfixing to him, perfectly masculine. Steve couldn’t say what it was about them—the hair on them; the way bone, muscle, and sinew formed their shape. “So you were kissing someone who looked like me in a flophouse?” he murmured.

Bucky shut his eyes, then looked at Steve like he was being a nuisance. “Combined two things.”

“Kissing me and someone else leaving you?”

“Steve…”

“Or me leaving you and you kissing someone else?”

“Now you’re just out to pester me.”

Steve mouthed his way up his thigh, wet and obscene. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Let it go.”

Steve looked up at him along the long line of his body, then slowly, deliberately closed his lips at the junction of where his leg met his hip, eyes dead set on him. 

Bucky made a gravelling noise halfway split between arousal and irritation, then finally sat up, clapping a hand at the back of Steve’s neck. “You know goddamned well,” he said, fingers firm in his hair, finally _paying attention_ , “that there’s never been anyone but you”—and then he kissed him as though to prove it: filthy, wrought deep out of memory, the same way he used to kiss Steve when he wanted him to shut up.

Steve smiled and rolled his tongue, crawling his way up Bucky’s body. He’d barely slid his legs under him again before Bucky threw him onto his back, more aggressive than usual. As though he was too invested in reminding Steve of his interest to remember restraint. 

If Bucky's intention was to make Steve forget the conversation, it worked like a charm. But that same telling silence followed them into the coming weeks as questions percolated in Steve’s mind. A kiss in a flophouse; a punch in an alley. 

Bucky telling him to stay _away_ from alleys. 

Bucky asking him if he was being followed.

Bucky pulling him away from a man with a gun.

  


  


  


  


The bags are already in Steve’s hands, but something slows him as he makes to leave.

The jet looks so utilitarian, all steel beams and empty space. It’s been the closest thing he, Natasha, and Sam have been able to call home in years, but to look at it now, Steve wouldn’t know. They could never justify sleeping in it when they were on mission, but every once in a while, when they had an extra day, they’d pick up food from wherever they were leaving and park the jet in the middle of nowhere for a night. Eat, drink, laugh. Play cards a while.

Alone in the cabin, it seems desolate, abandoned. Last time it had looked like this to Steve, Bucky had been sitting in the passenger seat, chewing nervously on the inside of his mouth on their way to Siberia.

     _I don’t know if I’m worth all this, Steve._

What would Steve say to that now? What would either of them say?

Steve puts his bag down on the seat and, against his instincts, pulls Bucky’s journal out from the bottom. Its cover is familiar by now; the book was in Steve’s possession for long enough before finding its way back to Bucky for Steve to know it on sight. Its contents are still unknown. He’d leafed through it a few times but kept his eyes out of focus, his desperate curiosity only barely outweighed by stubborn respect for Bucky’s independence.

Still, the photo of Steve had been hard to miss. Steve had let himself ruminate on it even then—of himself in uniform, masked and saluting. _Captain America,_ the caption said, though the jingoistic lines spoke for themselves. That was the image Bucky had remembered him by for years—cut from a magazine, a monument to his mistakes.

     _I read about you in a museum._

Steve sits down and opens the journal, shoving questions of privacy out of his mind. None of that matters now. Bucky’s not here. Steve needs something to keep him going.

Bucky took the plastic tabs away, so Steve starts at the beginning. 

The recto of the book’s cover is already hard to handle. Headed with three numbers— _4 4 14_ —it appears at a glance to be a summary of what happened in D.C. At least that’s what Steve surmises; _Steve was there_ is the only note in longhand. The rest of it is in fragmented code, written in a spindly, steady hand. 

_Steve was there._ Straight facts.

     _I read about you in a museum._

Steve forces himself to forge further ahead than the front fucking cover. The first page is dated about five months before Steve found him in Bucharest. Steve can’t decipher the code at first glance, but it’s something he thinks he might be able to crack eventually.

All at once, dread forms solid in his sternum. Bucky may not be here now, but wasn’t he planning to bring him… back?

Steve closes the book. Four days in and already his plans have been derailed. All they’ve been talking about is how to match Thanos in power and destroy him. They haven’t made a single plan for how to get everyone back.

One step at a time. Steve had kept in the back of his mind some idea that if they figured out how to match Thanos, Steve would magically know how to undo the Snap. But it doesn’t seem like the world would work that way. Maybe every step forward is a step away from Bucky, from Sam. From Wanda, T’Challa, from Clint’s entire family.

Steve flexes Bucky’s journal in his hand. He’s getting him back. He can’t lose sight of that.

     _I don’t know if I’m worth all this—_  
       _—Steve?_

Steve flips through the book again, eyes back out of focus, powerlessness setting in his bones. He’s not sure what to do now. No easy answers—

His heart skips a beat. There’s new writing, new entries, filling most of the book’s last third. 

It’s in a thick, blocky script, different from before. Smudged, like Bucky’s knuckles brushed the ink as he wrote. Steve recognizes the characters from when Bucky’d been forced to write with his right hand in school. The characters gain clarity over time, like his muscles remembered.

These entries aren’t written in code. Plain English, Bucky’s voice ringing clear in his head.

Steve leafs through the pages until the entries run out. They’re also more clearly dated, as though Bucky no longer thought there was any sense in being vague about much. He’d been found and arrested already. He wouldn’t pretend what he hadn’t done.

Steve goes back to the first blocky entry, hands shaking. He respects Bucky’s privacy. It’s just the urge to find him runs deeper still.

>        _Jan 20 2017_
> 
> _Steve. Beard’s new, rest isn’t. Worth a shot._
> 
> _Shuri, bona fide Princess of fucking Wakanda, did brain magic and now I forget a lot I should probably remember. Says it’ll come back but if she took out the assassin stuff I can’t help but wonder what else she took out. On purpose, not the side-effects._
> 
> _Haven’t read back. It’s good to have a record and I will catch up if I have to but if Wakandan royalty decided there was info I didn’t need to know, who am I to argue. I know what I owe._ (“You don’t owe anything,” Steve mutters to the page.) _If anyone should know what I did it’s me but if the world’s going sideways it seems like I should stay functional long enough to make a difference. Survive the alien apocalypse and then repent. Maybe it’s the same goddamn thing._
> 
> _~~Sorry for~~ I don’t know. Never a good choice is there._

There’s something in the tone of it, the way he imagines Bucky’s voice in his head, that makes it sound like Bucky was talking to someone. _Sorry,_ written and then crossed out—a word Bucky hated, that he thought never conveyed enough. 

Steve skims through the following pages, too raw to read deep but driven to it by his jackrabbiting heart. He flicks a finger at the moisture pooling stubbornly in the corners of his eyes and finds his gaze catching mostly on conspicuously short entries. Bucky was never exactly verbose, even in writing, but the truly short ones stand out for more reasons than the one: the writing is careful, for one thing, like he’d thought long and hard about what to write before he wrote it. 

For another, they all seemed to include references to alleyways.

>        _May 19 2017_
> 
> _Punched a guy in an alley that looked like him. Not sure on the rest. ”For protection”—seems important._
> 
> _Steve left today. Hurts more than last time._

Another like it, shorter still:

>        _Aug 18 2017_
> 
> _I think the gunman in the alley was mob._

Steve’s stomach sinks. He remembers Bucky standing halfway in the shadows, hand over his mouth, telling silence filling their two-room Brooklyn flat. “ _I just need you to cool it,_ ” he’d said, words muffled by the fingers over his own lips, dread manifesting by attenuated sound. “ _Stay out of alleys for a while. I’m gonna do my damndest to take care of this, but—_ ” 

     _You think I had mob connections?_

Steve’s starting to get the impression he had no goddamn idea how Bucky used to spend his time.

He’ll have to read through the journal eventually, but it’s too much now. Steve claps the book shut and gets to his feet, shoving the book deep as he can back into his bag, and strides out of the vacant jet without looking back.

  


  


  


  


Natasha’s cleaning up the kitchen when Steve walks in. He still half-expects he’ll walk in to find her gone one of these days. 

“We lose Barton again?” he asks, setting their bags down on the table.

“In bed,” Natasha says. “Cooper’s room.”

At least the power’s on now. It’s been flickering on and off since dusk fell; there must be an overloaded junction somewhere. They had eventually managed to heat up a couple of frozen pizzas, but in ten-minute increments spread twenty minutes apart. Finally they just succumbed to eating it half-frozen, the three of them leaned over the counter in silence.

There is a generator, but Clint seems loath to turn it on. Said something about how if the kids came back, they’d need it when the weather turns cold. Steve and Natasha had exchanged a glance and not said anything. 

The pizza probably wouldn’t have tasted that much better anyway.

Apart from the power issue, Clint’s also low on food. These are problems Steve has no idea how to begin to solve. He shudders to think who else is low on power: hospitals, hospices. Even if they could get into town for groceries, there’s no guaranteeing the stores haven’t already been cleaned out.

“Can’t decide if I want to work or be unconscious,” Steve says.

“Well, sleeping goes so well for you.”

He'll give Natasha that. “Wanna comb some files?”

She throws her cloth into the sink. “God, yes.”

Over the next forty minutes, they salvage the relevant folders out of the bunker, then seal the place back up for good, replacing the tractor back where Steve found it. Then begins the difficult task of sorting through seventy years of sensitive material.

Steve starts from the beginning. Some of Howard’s earliest notes on the Tesseract seem to have been ported in from the war, but they’re all dated from 1949. No mention of his wartime experiments appear in the 1949 pages at all. That on its own suggests the notes aren’t going to be accurate. 

For another thing, Howard’s notes begin with skilled avoidance in describing the Tesseract for what it is—if the folder hadn’t been labeled, they might have passed it right over. Certain buzzwords give it away—“otherworldly,” “unknowable readings,” “significance of blueness” were only a few. 

A not-insignificant number of the scientists’ names in the 1949 files are German. “They recruited Zola into SHIELD,” he mutters to himself. “Fucking _Zola_ , top scientist among Hydra. But they still couldn’t figure out how to recreate the energy transference into weapons?”

“Hydra never did either. After the war, I mean.”

Steve looks up. "It's not in the notes?" 

"It's not anywhere. I've never heard anything about it. The weapons being made during the war is the only thing I've ever heard about this kind of transferrence." 

“Maybe Hydra did remake them, but the information got lost,” says Steve.

“Maybe Zola was busy with other things. Closely monitored.”

"Not closely enough to avoid infiltrating SHIELD." Steve looks through the files again. “Maybe SHIELD just kept him away from weapons development, given his history.”

“Mm,” Natasha says, noncommittal. Steve returns to the page.

Howard’s name starts to disappear from the files on the Tesseract in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, names of other scientists taking his place. Even then, the writing on the Tesseract stays strangely sparse and free of details, though there are at least more things like what Steve might expect from a scientist’s observations as time goes on: calculations, hypotheses, more extended notes on variables. 

Steve leafs between the Howard-era notes and what comes after. “Fury said things were gonna be missing,” he mutters, “but this is a whole other ballgame. Howard’s notes are about the trajectory of the research, but not really the research itself. Where’s the scientific method? Look—no discussion about what was being tested, no detailed discussion of results except to record casualties. ‘Experiment 56 failed, 2 casualties, gruesome. Experiment 57 tomorrow, no metal this time.’ Ever seen Tony’s notes?" he asks Natasha. "They’re a mess of diagrams, notes, equations, personal ramblings. But there’s none of that going on here. There’s not even enough to know what tests he was running.”

Natasha steeples her eyebrows, squinting at the page. “You got all that… from this?”

The notes are in Stark shorthand—something Tony apparently inherited. “Some days I’m more fluent in Stark than I wanna be. If it was Fury clearing this place out—why wouldn’t he take the whole file?”

“Maybe he wanted us to find _some_ info on the Tesseract,” Natasha says slowly, but even she seems unconvinced. “It’s not like Stark would have divided his notes into separate pages. If there were results or diagrams or whatever, they would be here, right?”

“That’s my thinking. Here’s the point where Howard’s involvement seems to break off...” Steve points Natasha’s attention to a note of unusual clarity from Stark, written in all caps and underlined three times: _ALTERNATIVE POWER SOURCE?_ “But there’s nothing about how he reached this conclusion, or what this even means. There’s theorizing in the notes about what kinds of weapons could be derived from the Tesseract, but Stark seems less concerned with that. That research picks up later in the decade without Stark’s involvement with no mention of this.”

Natasha frowns, then leafs through her own stack, pulling out a file from midway down. “I didn’t see much of Howard in the ‘70s either, but I thought I noticed—here.” She points. “He gets involved again in the mid-‘80s. Starts talking about energy transference… I _think_. I’m not as fluent in Stark. It looks like he’s talking about liquid as a… conduit?” She points to a couple of the calculations, then to a note including _cdt_. “But… I don’t know. This doesn’t seem like it’s everything either.”

Steve nods and takes the file from her, leafing through a few pages more. “Yeah. There is _more_ here than there was in the ‘50s, but there’s still no method. Plus his absence from the project… he’s not—he _wasn’t_ the type to just let a bone drop. I’m willing to bet that he was taking his own notes—maybe for Stark Industries? And never copied them here.”

Natasha meets his gaze. “You think Tony might know something about this?”

Steve sighs and lets the paper drop, leaning back in his chair with crossing arms. “Is it a security breach if we fly this stuff out-of-country?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“Are we gonna do it anyway?”

“World’s ended," she says with a shrug. "Security’s already breached.”

Steve smiles thinly, then glances out the window. It’s nearly dawn. The sun somehow still rises. “I’m going to bed,” he decides, exhaustion suddenly setting in. 

Natasha doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. She just stacks the files on top of one another and slips after him toward the stairs.

  


  


  


  


The second floor is quiet. _Too_ quiet. Steve’s not sure what he expected, but something about it doesn’t feel right. 

He holds out a staying hand to Natasha, but she just clicks her tongue and slips past. “There’s nothing here." She walks to the end of the hall, unhesitating. Steve doesn’t say anything, but he does resist the urge to pull her back. 

Natasha leans forward, peering into Cooper’s bedroom, face folding in sympathy. “We’re going to bed,” she says softly.

For a while, there’s no sound. Then, nasally—“Okay.”

“You want anything?”

“My family back.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Working on it. Anything else?”

“More booze.”

“You drank it all, except for what Steve left of the creme de menthe.”

Clint grunts quietly. “Not that far gone.”

Natasha smiles. Steve slips forward to meet her. The silence broken, his sense of danger has quelled. He’s not sure what it is about silence now. The sound of dust falling to the ground.

Steve can make out the faint outline of Clint’s back from the light in the hall. He’s turned away from the door, curled up tight on a too-small bed. “Where you guys gonna sleep?” Clint asks without turning.

“Master,” Natasha says. “That okay?”

Clint turns halfway over, just enough for the light to catch his eye. He looks from Natasha to Steve, where he’s hanging back from the doorway. “Both of you?”

“Mhm.”

A thinking silence. “Are you two, like… boning now?”

“Boning?” Steve croaks.

“No,” Natasha says.

“You’re just… sharing a bed.”

“Yep.”

Natasha’s tone doesn’t soften. Clint seems to get the idea. He shrugs and turns over in Cooper’s bed again. “Sure. Get on with your bad selves.”

“I’m gonna take care of Laura, okay?”

Clint nods without saying anything. Natasha pulls the door closed, then opens a closet and drags out a vacuum. “Wait here,” she says, and pushes it ahead of her into the master bedroom.

A thin sweat of panic breaks over Steve’s skin. He hastens halfway after her, extending a staying hand. “Natasha.”

“Trust me,” she says only, and disappears through the door.

Steve stands, numb with horror, as the vacuum turns on. An eternity later, it shuts off again. Natasha exits and puts the vacuum serenely away, then meets Steve’s horrified gaze head-on.

“Should we have trodden over her?” she asks neutrally. “Would that have been okay with you?”

There’s nothing to say.

“Clint dealt with the kids,” Natasha says. “Said he had to take care of them. Couldn’t bring himself to do the same with Laura, so—”

“This is you,” Steve croaks, pointing, “taking care.”

“What would you have had me do? At least we know where she is.”

Steve stares a long time. “I—”

“Nothing to be done now.” Natasha nods toward the bedroom. Now she’s taking care of _him._ “Come on.”

Steve follows. His feet slow when he steps in, dragging in the carpet. It looks like a bedroom—clean, nothing out of place. Steve’s afraid to look too closely at surfaces. He wonders what he’d see: more dust, or none.

Natasha pulls a fresh set of sheets from the top shelf of the closet and throws them into Steve’s hands, moving toward the bed. “Give me a hand.”

Steve doesn’t reply. He watches uselessly as Natasha strips the bed. “Is this weird?” he finally asks. “You and me…” He gestures between them, and then at the bed.

Natasha looks at him head-on. “Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“You care about being weird?” She throws the bundle of old sheets toward the hamper; they collapse on the floor. 

“Not really.”

“Great.” She points again to the clean sheets, stripping a pillow. “You helping or what?”

Steve finally finds it in him to move, throwing the topsheet over his shoulder while launching one corner of the fitted to Natasha.

They make the bed up in silence. He used to do this alone all the time, when Bucky was at work. Sometimes Steve wondered if he knew they were even washed. Natasha steps out of her pants and slips into bed, and Steve pauses a second before the same, turning out the light beside him.

She lies with her back to him, pillow clutched to her gut—same way she’s slept for the last two years. It’s a ruse, Steve knows, intended to lull bedsharers into a false sense of security. Steve had wondered in the early days if she slept like that to conceal a weapon, but had woken up enough times with her splain halfway over him to know by now that she doesn’t.

Steve suddenly feels grateful—that she’s still here. That they do this weird thing. That he wakes up to see somebody’s still there.

“Can I be really weird for a second?” he murmurs, shutting his eyes hard.

Natasha goes stiff beside him. “Depends. What’s really weird?”

Steve’s still another moment, but finally he reaches out and pulls her into his body, hugging her tight, face pressed frowningly into the back of her neck. He pulls back after a few moments, impulse satisfied—only for Natasha to snatch hard at his wrist.

Steve freezes. Slowly, like she’s not sure if she should be doing it, Natasha pulls his arm back over her hip, then lifts her body to pull Steve’s other arm under her. “I’m not having sex with you,” she mutters, scooting until her back’s at Steve’s chest.

“ _That_ would be weird,” he says into her hair, and curls his arms around her tight as he can.

  



	7. People v. Power

### September, 2017

“It’s definitely not that I didn’t remember you.” 

Steve liked this best—when they started prodding at each other until they gave up on reading, tangling their limbs together into one creature. Steve had curled his leg between Bucky’s and immediately gotten it pinned down, Bucky managing dominance even down a limb. They were already naked; Steve wouldn’t have minded sex, but Bucky was warm and content and talking, and that was enough to keep him present.

“You were foggy,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” said Bucky. “I was foggy.”

“So you went to the museum and you were foggy.”

“I was foggy! I’m saying I remembered you, it was a matter of putting the pieces in place—”

“So you definitely didn’t catch sight of me in that uniform and think of the time you tied me up with it—”

“It was,” Bucky said loudly, “a _video_ , for crying out loud! I didn’t look at that grey bastard and think, ‘this reminds me of that dicksucking Steve gave me that one time behind the barracks.’”

Steve hacked a laugh. “Here I thought you cared about me, Buck.”

“That was later.”

“The caring about me?”

“The dicksucking.” Bucky smiled, wide, mouth against Steve’s jaw. Out of nowhere, he sunk his teeth softly into Steve’s chin, then sealed his lips around it, wet and intimate. 

It lit into Steve hard. An age-old memory, taken straight out of the thirties—one of those playful things, lost to time until now. 

“So the fog cleared,” Bucky said. He tilted Steve’s head back with his thumb and scanned his teeth along his jaw, raked them down his neck. “Funny the things you remember most. I was sitting there—” He sucked a mark against Steve’s pulse until groaned—“in this town in Pennsylvania, just outside Bloomsberg. September. I remember because the fair was behind me. I’d just been to Wisconsin and I was looking out over the Susquehanna, thinking of Russia. Then I saw someone that made me think of you and all of _this_ came rushing back—”

Steve had no idea what Bucky was saying or why he was saying it, because Bucky's fingers had wrapped around his dick and squeezed until Steve gave the kind of sound that cleared out everything but want. “It’s the same thing I remembered,” Bucky went on, voice a taut growl, “first time you were here. You touching me. Finding me with your hands as you sank onto my dick.”

“You just thought of this,” Steve said, throwing his head back to give Bucky more room to ravage him, “sitting at the river in Pennsylvania.”

Bucky’s hand stroked lazily at his cock, took his time in answering. “You doubt me?” 

Steve lost track of the question. “Yeah.”

“Yeah you doubt me?”

“No... I believe you.”

Bucky hummed at his jaw. “Suddenly he’s amenable.”

“You’re very convincing," Steve said, wrenching his hands deeper in Bucky's tied-back hair. "What’s gotten into you?”

“Just clearing the fog.” Bucky pushed up, teasing his lips against Steve’s without kissing him, just the tips of his fingers over his cock. “Seem to remember talk about sitting on you.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll probably agree to anything right now, huh?”

“Probably.”

“Wanna know what else I remember?”

“Yeah.”

So Bucky told him; and then he showed him.

  


  


  


  


Steve is not with him now. 

He is in an unfamiliar room. The comforter over him is covered in blood. He throws it off, standing; there's been a slaughter. He squares his hands for combat—

There is no blood. It’s raining outside. The comforter is brown.

He is at the Bartons’. 

Steve hasn’t dreamed like that since Bucky died. He wishes he hadn't started now. At least Natasha isn’t here to witness his shame. He stumbles, half-blind, heart stuttering behind his ribs, into the ensuite; gets in the shower, turns it up hot, and stands under the searing water until he can’t stand it anymore. He presses his forehead against the wet tile and wrests out an awful, expedient orgasm, his eyes wrenched shut, breath hanging in his chest—but it doesn’t do a thing. An undoing is hard to stop once it’s begun. 

There’s a hitch in his chest with every suffocating breath. Steve waits for it to pass, waits for the desire to scream to leach out through his feet the way he’s learned to let it do, but all it does is build until he’s hitting the wall, denting plaster with his hands; he does it again, screaming, tearing the tiles out of the wall until skin breaks on his fingers.

The sobs die out when the heat does, the cold shocking him back into the world. He’s used up the hot water; the others can wait or not shower at all. He faces the ground and lets the cold water pound over his head, long hair draping in sopping strands around his face. 

He’s got a mission to do. That's all that matters.

  


  


  


  


“Feeling better?” Natasha asks. She doesn't look up from her files.

“No.” Steve moves haltingly for the coffee.

It only takes the fold of Natasha's brow for Steve to guess how he looks. “You got some sleep.”

“Wish I hadn’t.” He keeps his face turned away as he pours. 

"What was that noise?"

“Destroyed the shower.”

"Oh."

“Tell Barton I’ll pay for it.”

“Don’t think Barton gives a shit about his shower.” She gestures vaguely toward the radio where it sits beside the sink in the kitchen. “Your money’s not much good anyway.”

Steve frowns, stepping toward the crackling voice. The reception’s not good; its tinniness is too familiar, evoking nostalgia of a physical kind. 

“ _That’s the way I’m hearing it, anyway,_ ” comes the nasal voice. There's no way this guy's professional. 

Steve looks to Natasha, who only shrugs. “Middle of nowhere.”

“ _Reopening the markets is a… risky move, especially given the state of New York right now,_ " the guy on the radio drones. Steve sighs and leans against the counter, sipping his coffee as he listens. " _But if the international markets are open I guess the US has to—_ ” The commentator disappears behind a wall of static. “ _—disruptions in the communications arrays have proven the most catastrophic. It’s safe to say a hierarchy of data and information access has been created in the United States, with service providers being told to limit access—_ ” Another static interruption. “ _—phone lines and, naturally, internet access is limited when it comes to ordinary citizens, but government and other officials seem to have no trouble with access. Television channels have been taken off standby only to flash the same emergency message on all frequencies—_ ”

More static. Steve looks to Natasha. “Is this an intentional block we’re hearing?”

“It’s rural Iowa," she says. "I don’t think anyone important knows he’s there. It’s pretty rhythmic, though; he goes under every 20 seconds or so. More likely I think it’s feedback of some kind, maybe from whatever’s blocking other channels.” She shrugs. “Not my area.”

“ _—government still has to run and it seems that ours has deemed defense and offense joint priorities. Military presence is not about to go down—_ ” Static again. “ _—profits being the American imperative, it’s not surprising the markets have reopened to compete with international tides. This is a global catastrophe, with every nation of the world reporting similar casualties—”_

“Not great at staying on topic,” Steve mutters.

“Sounds like he rigged a signal out of nothing. He mentioned at some point he’s a farmer, so I don’t think he’s pro. I give it two days max before someone blocks him altogether.”

“— _wealthy and elite working to build themselves up as usual, but based on these preliminary market numbers, middle-class Americans—if they can be said to still exist at all—are facing hard days ahead, if anything resembling a functioning economy ever gets re-established._ ”

Steve’s heard enough. He pushes off the counter with a sigh. “Is it bad I’m struggling to care?”

Natasha just plops a fresh stack of files down in front of him. “We can’t do everything.”

They stay in Iowa a couple more days, which turns out to be more harrowing than Steve expected. Clint and Natasha spend the rest of the day in a spat over to what extent going into town is an option. Steve, recognizing that the argument is probably about more than just going into town, opts to avoid them to the fullest extent of his ability, happy enough to spend half an hour sitting in the dark lousy with grief without anyone looking for him anyway.

He re-emerges from his self-imposed exile only once a slammed door finally casts an uneasy silence over the house. “He shouldn’t stay here by himself,” Steve says to Natasha. “Just the food situation alone—”

“He’s got food,” Natasha says, not looking up from where she’s angrily combing through the ‘90s. “Plenty in the cellar.”

“In—what?”

She points vaguely to a door off the kitchen Steve had assumed was a closet. He opens the door to find a descending staircase. One look at the canned goods lining the walls tells him all he needs to know about how ready for the apocalypse the Bartons really were.

“Okay,” Steve says, re-emerging. “Guess we could leave him here if we had to.”

“Him and a few dozen others." She sets a folder down hard on the counter; Steve wastes no time in picking it up again, pulling out a chair.

In the hours that follow, the pair of them manage to isolate the pages on the Tesseract that seem of particular importance. Natasha makes coloured tabs out of construction paper and tapes them to the relevant sections—red for Stark’s reference, mostly on things to do with Howard. Bruce, the expert on biophysics, gets brown; Shuri, for any leads on energy transference, gets green.

Clint, in the two hours a day he manages to be both upright and forming full sentences, does have some useful intel from Project Pegasus to share. “Well,” he rasps, grabbing the 2010-onward files and sitting down at the counter beside Nat, “I couldn’t hear for shit from where I was, but I could read lips part of the time. I will say I am surprised these files from pre-2010 exist, because I don’t think Selvig knew about 'em.”

“I didn’t know they existed either,” Natasha reasons.

“You weren't a scientist working on the Tesseract. Fury had these people trying to develop weaponry out of the power source, but somehow never mentioned all this research had been done on it before?”

“But he knew,” Steve says. “He had to have known. He was director of SHIELD; it had to be somewhere. Hell, back when Howard was getting back involved in the '80s, Fury was already... wasn't he?" 

"He was made director in the late '90s," Clint offers. "Been with SHIELD a solid, I dunno, ten years before that at least." 

"Fury was trying to make weapons out of the Tesseract in 2012 when I woke up, and you're trying to tell me Howard never mentioned the same thing was done during the war?”

“I mean, Fury was defying orders from the World Security Council when he made those weapons of secondary importance,” says Natasha.

“Phase Two,” Steve remembers. “What was Phase One? Opening the portal?”

“Not exactly,” says Clint. “More understanding it. Fury was no dummy; he knew something was coming. He just wanted to know what it was before building an arsenal to defeat it. Know your enemy, that kind of thing.”

“He wanted to build the Avengers,” Natasha says, and Clint gestures and nods.

“He always put chips on that. People, then power.”

Steve holds his tongue. Maybe that’d been true when Clint and Nat had joined up with SHIELD, but it didn’t last. Not after the Chitauri put the fear of God into Fury’s motivations.

Steve had always wondered, on the other hand, to what extent Fury had made the decisions he’d claimed to make. He alone had claimed responsibility for the call to build the Helicarriers, but that didn’t seem right to Steve. Not given the way Fury knew to resist orders that weren’t inside the public interest. 

Who had really been behind Insight? Pierce? The Security Council? SHIELD as a whole? Fury's real pet project—the Avengers coalition—somehow survived when other weapons systems had not. Now the Avengers are scattered across the world or the universe—but still intact. They're still the best defenders the world has left, and the only ones with a real shot at undoing this thing.

Maybe Fury had known what he was doing all along—deprioritizing typical weapons for the Avengers instead. Maybe Howard had told him everything; maybe Fury had done away with those files long ago, rejecting that outcome for SHIELD's present day. Maybe he’d had better instincts than it seemed. Maybe he’d just held one of those qualities oft overlooked in the definition of a good leader: a willingness to shoulder the blame for critical decisions, even if he made those decisions when no one else was looking.

Or maybe—

_Rogers may still serve as a valuable ally. Sometimes unpredictability is an asset._

Maybe all he’d done was make it so the walking weapons would make it through long enough to shoulder some of that blame on his behalf.

“So, uh," Clint says, wrenching Steve from his thoughts. "You find why Fury doesn’t trust Steve somewhere in here?”

Steve rubs his hands over his face, exhausted. He’s done with secrets. Clint can trust him or not, Steve doesn’t care anymore. “He thinks the supersoldier serum was made from the Tesseract." 

“Oh," Clint says, neutral. "So he’s afraid Thanos might play you like a fiddle.”

 _That, or he thinks I’m some kind of power source bound to go nuclear any second_. “Something like that.”

Clint just nods and goes back to the files. 

Steve had expected a bigger reaction than that. “And you’re fine with that.”

“Who among us hasn’t been played like a fiddle for the forces of evil now and again?” Clint says, landing a high-five when Natasha holds up her hand.

Apart from Clint’s oscillation into and out of bed at all hours, the three of them barely move from their fort of files, which eventually spreads out over the kitchen table and into the living room. The main floor becomes a makeshift briefing room. The power manages to stay on throughout, except for a twenty-minute period the next morning, which means coffee gets made and stays hot at all hours. Steve and Natasha try to force themselves to sleep every time the sun rises, but Natasha mostly relies on sofa naps and Steve mostly stops trying.

When he does try, he sets alarms for two hours later. He’ll do anything in his power to avoid dreaming for long.

In a way, it works. His dreams stay vague—grotesque reshapings of his friends into dust, and then into other things. Aliens; Chitauri. Horror movie versions of themselves somehow still easier to stomach than reality.

They hear from Bruce, who says he’s back at the compound waiting for pickup, helping Rhodey with things in the meanwhile.

Then they hear from Thor, who’s landed back in Wakanda.

"Hey," Steve says, setting the kimoyo beads fumblingly on the table by Natasha. He keeps thinking he’ll never get used to this Wakandan tech, but he used to think that about cell phones, too.

“You are at Barton’s?” Thor asks them.

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Digging through SHIELD files, thinking of coming back soon.”

“I will meet you there.”

"No, I think we're winding down here anyway. Got to go pick up Banner; have some things to talk to Stark and Shuri about. You at the hillside lab?”

"I am."

“You find the gauntlet?"

Thor lifts it into frame without hesitation. 

Steve squints at the display. The glove is huge. He'd have to hold his hand straight in the air to use that thing for long. "Why is it so… big?"

"Made for a Titan, was it not? It will shrink down to size.”

Before anyone else can break the silence of confusion, Clint pipes up from the background. "What, in the wash?"

"No," Thor says, squinting around to find Clint in the display. “You will be familiar with the laws of Dwarven craftsmanship.”

"No," say the three of them in unison.

Thor sighs. "Weapons forged from Nidavellir can only be wielded by those deemed worthy, more or less. This might mean different things for different molds. Once the gauntlet is activated with the Stones’ power and its wielder deemed capable, it will conform to the wielder’s dimensions.”

Steve feels himself wincing. “What are the conditions of… worthiness?"

"In this case, likely complex sentience. Free will, individual decisionmaking, that sort of thing. It would likely perceive worthiness even if the being is not constitutionally equipped to wield the stones for longer than, say, a few moments." Thor says it darkly, like a warning: there are no guarantees. "Such safeguards are primarily built into the weapons so hivemind species cannot decimate the world on a whim or on instinct.”

"So it's not likely to prevent me from using it just because I'm not a Titan."

“No,” says Thor. “Thanos might have commanded such a condition on its creation, but Eitri would not have been foolish enough to put it in."

"You talked to him?"

Thor blinks askance. "I knew him. That is enough."

Steve shuts his eyes. Another loss to tally.

"Did you catch up with your people?" Natasha asks him.

"I did," Thor says, managing to inject cheer into his tone. "They are tired and ragged, but they persevere. I can stay on Earth only for a day; I must find them a place to rest. Their craft are mere escape pods, not built for long periods of travel.”

"What happened to his people?" Clint asks Steve, stepping level.

"Asgard got destroyed," Steve mutters, aside.

"Before Thanos," Thor clarifies, not bothering to spare himself the explanation. "Hello, Barton."

“What,” Clint asks, “the whole planet?"

"Yep." Thor sounds cavalier, as though finding it unseemly.

"You've got a whole planet of people in _escape pods_?”

"It is not as it sounds," Thor reasons. "Asgard's population is lower than Earth’s. Our people live for significantly longer, so there is less drive to reproduce. Most of our population was able to escape Ragnarok, but their numbers were halved when Thanos came to claim the Tesseract, then halved again in the Event.”

“So how many of you are left?" Clint asks.

"Four hundred, give or take."

"Easy," says Clint. "Land here."

Thor pauses, then frowns. “Your home is quaint, Barton, and certainly worthy of your affections. But it is hardly fit for—"

"Have you seen the abandoned SHIELD facility we built underground, too?”

“I... have not.“

Clint shrugs, humble. "Quarters aren't fancy, but they'll give your people somewhere to sleep. Got enough food to last a few days; with your help I might be able to coordinate something more permanent." He gives a short sigh, then rubs at his face. "Pull something good out of all this. No one knows this place exists, so enemies of Asgard—if you have any—"

"We have plenty."

“They won't think to look here. Not here specifically, anyway. If you want to find another option... have at. But the offer stands."

Thor, confusingly, looks to Steve for confirmation. "It's out of the way," Steve reasons. "No one's gonna be bothered out here by four hundred aliens who mostly look human."

"Humans look Asgardian," Thor corrects.

"Same thing."

“It isn't.”

“Can we focus?” Natasha asks tiredly.

Thor turns back to Clint. “Your facility can hold four hundred souls?"

"It won't be the most comfortable arrangement, but no one’ll be left in the cold. We might have to loot an REI or something.”

Thor looks circumspect. “What is an… arieye?"

“It’s a store. They sell tents, sleeping bags."

Thor's face flashes horror. "They sell _what_?” 

"It's doable,” says Steve, eyes closing, “is the point."

“Alright,” Thor says, though he still looks concerned. “I will instruct Valkyrie to land at your coordinates. Is there a preferred time?"

"Now," Clint says, shrugging. "Whenever. I don't care."

“Barton,” Thor says gravely, beads leaning forward. "Thank you."

Clint throws a hand and walks away from Thor's projection, like the sincerity's too much. "You'd do the same.”

Natasha busies herself watching Clint’s retreat, so it’s only Steve who sees the shadow pass over Thor's face. When Thor nods at him again, there's no trace of it; Steve wonders if he'd really seen it at all. “You'll remain where you are?” Thor asks him. “There are things we might discuss.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Excellent.” Thor grins broadly, without a hint of artificiality, but Steve knows better than that by now; saw him turn on a dime too many times in the day or so after to know his skill at compartmentalizing himself. Maybe he could teach Steve a thing or two. “Then I and four hundred of my countrymen shall see you in short order."

The call flickers to an abrupt end. 

Clint's the first to swing into action, pulling a set of keys off a rack by the door. "I'm gonna go see the state of the compound," he says, halfway outside. "Figure out what we're gonna need."

"I'll help," Natasha says, following.

"We’ll have to go into town—“

"Steve can go.”

"Steve," Clint says through gritted teeth, "doesn't know where the REI is in Des Moines. I, on the other hand—"

"I don't know what an arieye is either," Steve admits.

"Oh my God," Natasha says, pushing Clint out the door. “ _I'll_ go into Des Moines."

"And I," Clint says airily, "will go with you."

"Steve can come with me." Natasha leans back inside, flashing Steve a thin smile. "Call us when Thor gets here."

"Sure," Steve says tiredly; then, the door pulling to a close, he's left alone in the darkened kitchen to await another alien landing.

  


  


  


  


The Asgardian ships don't arrive until dark has truly fallen, by design or lucky fluke. Steve wouldn’t have realized it was happening at all if he hadn’t looked out the window to see Stormbreaker’s glow through the distant trees. He makes his way across the yard to find Thor standing in a clearing, waving two pods down—a cosmic traffic controller, grander than Earth seems fit to hold. 

Steve waits until the ships have landed, then steps forward, wondering if there’ll ever be a day he’s not humbled by the universe’s unknowns. It’s moments like these that leave him wondering why it’s down to him to save a realm he knows nothing about. “Might want to roll the pods into the trees,” Steve tells Thor, nodding to the copse behind him. Thor just spins to greet him, grinning, like he’d known he was there all along. “There have been a lot of fly-overs. I don't think anyone will be distracted enough to investigate, but just in case—“

"The pods have stealth capability," Thor says, dismissive. “No one will be able to tell they are here.”

"Oh," says Steve. Of course they do. The door to one of the escape pods opens and a woman steps out, clad in armour, instantly drawing Thor’s attention. Steve goes to find Clint and Natasha, and the three of them spend the better part of the night working with Thor and Valkyrie to settle everyone in—Natasha showing them quarters; Clint serving food; Steve helping the injured into the house and directing people to where they need to go.

Though a tight fit, there is room for everyone. By the time the sun rises, things have settled enough to decide once and for all who’s going to town. In the end, a triumphant Clint and a grumbling Natasha pile into the truck—Clint showing a hint of a smile for the first time in days—and, after asking Valkyrie to settle everyone in, Thor nods Steve aside and leads him into a cluster of trees.

Steve isn't sure why, until Thor pulls the gauntlet out from where he’d wedged it against a branch. In the low light of the early morning, it looks almost plain—a brassy paint finish on an oversized prop. “I wish I could say,” Thor says gravely, “that I thought it best if I wielded the stones myself.” Though he holds the gauntlet halfway out to Steve, he seems hesitant to hand it over. Steve’s fine to delay. Just to look at the thing, his adrenaline spikes. It might look plain, but one snap of brass fingers was all it took to erase half the world. 

“I’m volunteering,” Steve says. He _is_ volunteering for this; to wield all this power. He clears his throat, finding conviction. “You’re not. That’s reason enough.”

“Stark does not agree.”

“Stark's an idiot.”

Thor smiles. It lacks its usual brilliance. Maybe that makes it genuine. “I wish to make clear,” Thor says, gesturing with the gauntlet, “the risks in your endeavor.”

"I know the risks.”

“Failure is possible at every turn,” Thor says anyway. “From the moment you first wield the stones, you may be consumed by their power, destroyed on a molecular scale.”

“I know.”

“Or they may destroy you elsewise. They may feed on your power and corrupt you from within. Thanos himself is a testament, a cautionary tale—”

“Guess it's a good thing I’m nothing like Thanos.”

Thor stares, not missing the edge in Steve's tone. “My point—”

“Is that power corrupts, Thor, I'm aware. Do you think this is the first time I’ve encountered someone like this? You think Thanos is my first dance with a megalomaniac? I’m motivated to do this _because_ I understand the stakes, not in spite of them. I don’t need you or anyone else lecturing me on—”

“If you cannot be stopped,” Thor booms over him, holding the gauntlet aloft, “I am asking your forgiveness for the day I strike you down.”

Steve is stunned into silence. The rising sun breaks through the trees. Jagged light reaches through the branches, glinting from the axe that hangs from Thor's hand.

It’s not that Steve had forgotten he was talking to a god. It’s just the first time in a while he’s really felt it.

“You have it,” Steve says. He lets his shoulders drop, his voice a rumble. Thor relaxes in kind. For a moment they stand ensconced, confined to stillness by the severity of their task. 

“You _have_ considered the repercussions,” says Thor.

“Mostly I’m just relieved you made the offer without my having to ask.”

Thor’s face is kept in shadow by the backlit sun. “I take no pleasure in the prospect.”

“I know.”

“It is _because_ I am your friend that I—”

“I know,” says Steve. “It’s because you’re my friend that I trust you to make the call.”

Thor nods. “If you are corrupted by this power, I may be able to strike you down. But if _I_ am corrupted... the task would not be so easy. It is for this reason I do not feel I can undertake the endeavor myself. Not as a first defense.”

“I understand.”

“Apart from my strength and galactic influence, it may be that I am more susceptible to corruption than most. I have recently had cause to learn that Asgard’s history was not always as protector. I am prepared to act as a contingency should you fail… but nothing more.”

“It’s no more your responsibility to take this on than it is anyone else’s.”

“It is certainly not yours," Thor reminds him. "You are a human mortal, trying to take on celestial powers more ancient than the universe itself—”

“You say that,” Steve says, rubbing a tired hand at his face, “but somehow I’ve been chasing the Tesseract down for longer than… well, since 1943. I died to bury it. I came back just before it was used in the first cosmic plot to destroy this realm, and now I’m finding out that it might have been used to make me. Now I can’t help but think that—”

Thor stops him with a raised hand. “The Tesseract— _made_ you?”

“Natasha has a theory they put Tesseract essence into the serum.”

“That’s not possible.”

Steve frowns. “Why not?”

Thor doesn’t immediately answer. “I suppose… it is _possible_ ," he says slowly. "If these weapons used extracted Tesseract energy—”

“They did.”

“Then perhaps it was extracted for other means." He looks at Steve skeptically. "And is this… likely? That the serum contained…?”

“I don’t know. The dates don’t seem to line up, but we don’t have proof either way.”

“That complicates matters.”

“Why?”

He chews on his lip in contemplation. “Perhaps it simplifies them."

“Just talk to me."

“You may… either be more susceptible to the Stones’ effects,” Thor says slowly, looking Steve up and down, “or you may carry a natural immunity to them.”

“It's crossed my mind. I was gonna ask Shuri to run some tests when I got back to Wakanda; see if we can find out if this is even true. There’s nothing in the SHIELD files about the serum at all, so anyone’s guess is—”

“For what reason?”

 _To pit the members of my team against me?_ “Probably to keep people as aware as you are that I’m prone to corruption,” Steve says, “I don’t know. Fury had a lot of secrets he didn’t bother to share. Seems like he was carrying on a long-term legacy of secrecy in SHIELD.”

Thor studies him with a sobriety that Steve finds hard to parse. He’s not sure if he prefers this version of Thor to the version with the upbeat mask. He’s seen inklings of this severity before, but not for this long; not with such conviction. Something about his intensity makes Steve feel stripped down, puts a buzzing in his limbs.

“Even if the Tesseract is in my blood—maybe especially then—I’m committed to giving this a shot," Steve goes on. "It was personal for me well before Thanos turned half the world to dust, and it’ll be personal to me until it’s settled. Do I want to hunt Thanos down and make sure he can never do anything like this again? Yeah, that’s goal number one. But that’s not all it is.”

“You believe it is destiny.”

“It occurred to me.”

Thor stares at him a long time. “I believed it was my destiny to make Thanos hurt for what he had done.” His voice has turned quiet; the birds calling in the trees almost bury his words, but Steve feels every syllable in his bones. “For killing my brother; my friends; my countrymen. I felt a swift death was less than he deserved—and he yet lives.” Thor raises his chin. “I am not the only one susceptible to the misguided whims of a broken heart.”

“Find me someone who isn’t brokenhearted. Find me that person, and then explain to me how someone who isn’t absolutely fucking devastated by what has happened to this galaxy is a safer bet to wield the stones than someone with a goddamn soul.” Steve breathes at him harshly. “The only thing corruptibility proves is that there’s something to corrupt.”

“That is… one way of seeing things.”

“What’s the other?”

Thor doesn’t seem to want to answer. Steve doesn’t especially want to hear it anyway.

“I will support you through any measure I can,” Thor finally concedes, “within reason.”

“Thank you.”

“And I do not plan to stop you. Not unless I must. But I must also be clear… that I do not think it wise to try to undo what has been done.” He holds Steve’s eye with sorry clarity. “We ought to stop Thanos in the present. Nothing more.”

Steve paces in place, hand set over his eyes, blood pumping high. “And set three and a half billion souls to the winds?”

That shadow again, crossing over Thor’s face. “I do not need reminding of the cost. I have—” Steve sees only the barest flex of his jaw as he looks askance. “I lost what is left of my family at Thanos’ hand... before the Event. I would ask you where to draw the line. Is the loss of half of my people the _first_ time acceptable? Should I not go back and save them at the first? Yet they will still be set adrift, having lost their home—so shall I go back to stop Ragnarok? Shall I save my mother’s life, my father’s? Shall we prevent the Chitauri attack from befalling New York?”

Steve closes his eyes. “I get your point.”

“I aim to help you, Steven. For the time being, I believe that you may be the best shot at defeating Thanos, particularly if you truly have the power of the Tesseract in your blood. But I do not aim to change the past, and I will not help you down that path. If you do not succeed, I will not pursue it in your stead.”

“I understand. Thank you for your candor.”

“But I have not changed your mind.”

Steve gives a faint smile. “All you’ve done is convince me to win.”

Of all things—Thor smiles back. “You are a true warrior, Steven. That much is admirable.”

“I’m just trying to do what’s right.” He's tired of discussing it. He holds out his hand, beckoning to Thor to hand him the glove.

Thor gives it to him slowly, studying Steve as it passes. Steve doesn’t pretend he finds the moment ceremonious. He lifts the glove into the morning light; the brass looks almost gold in the sunrays casting through the trees. “Sure it’ll shrink?” he mutters, thumb tracing over its grooves.

“Such a weapon is surely enchanted,” Thor says. He seems more at ease now that the thing’s out of his hands. “Simply dormant. You could put it on now and nothing would transpire.”

Steve slides the gauntlet slowly onto his hand as though to prove the assertion. He feels nothing; wiggles his fingers. “Your Wakandan colleagues wished to run additional tests,” Thor says, voice dark again. “I believe they are crafting a box of some kind—something that will block the stones’ radiation once the gauntlet is active. You will not need to wield it at all times. In fact it would be best if you do not.”

“I’m heading back there in a couple of days," Steve says. "I’ll work with them on it.”

Thor is silent as Steve examines the glove further. When Steve finally looks up, he notices Thor’s tense posture, Stormbreaker still hanging in one hand.

“I hope you know what you are doing,” Thor says.

Steve takes a steadying breath, turning his arm over in the air. “I’m not doing anything yet.” Neutrality settles back into Thor's face as Steve slides the glove off his hand. “You should rest,” Steve says, nodding toward the house. “The sofa’s still free, or you can sleep in the jet.”

“I must check on Valkyrie,” Thor says instead. As he passes, he flashes Steve a winning grin, nudging him in the shoulder. “I think she’s warming to me.”

Steve hums as he meets Thor's stride. From what he’s seen, warmth doesn’t seem among Valkyrie's foremost qualities. 

"You do not think so?" Thor asks.

"I don't know her," Steve says diplomatically.

“Nevermind," says Thor. The sun glints off the axe and the glove in turn. They walk out of the trees and into the clearing, two reluctant warriors for the realm. "Perhaps it is simply a matter of time."

  



	8. The Convergence and the Chance

  


Steve and Natasha stay in Iowa another day to help things settle down, but with so many people milling around, they feel more in the way than anything. When the Asgardians are fitted with bedding and clothing options hotly debated—Clint, tiredly, fielding enough questions and requests that he seems to briefly forget how miserable he is—Steve and Nat call into the Compound and quietly take their leave, SHIELD files in tow.

They don’t stay long in New York. Bruce seems to relate to the desire to get out of US airspace as quickly as possible and meets them on the landing pad.

“You talk to Wong?” Natasha asks as he climbs in.

“Yeah. He was really helpful. There’s a lot to unpack, a couple things I wanna talk to Shuri about.”

“Cliffnotes?”

“Well,” Bruce says on a sigh, “for starters, the Time Stone doesn’t actually affect… time.”

Steve glances over his shoulder as he gets them in the air. “It _doesn’t_?”

“What it really affects is matter, and how it _interacts_ with time. It’s a long story, but to mess with time itself, you’re messing with the fabric of the universe. It’s not really possible, and it’s also extremely dangerous. You’re not even supposed to use the Time Stone for anything except to keep things uniform when something shows up powerful enough to bend time.”

“What do you mean, ‘bend time’?” asks Natasha.

“What do you mean, ‘not supposed to use it’?” Steve asks at the same time.

Bruce looks between them, then shrugs apologetically to Natasha. “I’ll get to the complicated stuff in a second. There’s a whole tradition around how the Time Stone is used. Sorcerers have used it to protect Earth for a long time. They call it the Eye of Agamotto. It’s kept at Kamar-Taj, this compound in Nepal, which also serves as the common point of contact between three Sanctums across the Northern Hemisphere. The Sanctums are built over places where the laws of space and time have been violated before, so the walls between dimensions are weaker there. If there’s a dimensional breach, odds are high it’s gonna originate from one of those locations. In linking the weak points to where the Time Stone is kept, the idea is that in the event of a breach, the keepers of the Sanctums can grab the Time Stone and use it get things back to normal.”

“Help me consolidate my ideas here," says Steve. "Dimensions are the same thing as what Nebula calls ‘realms’.”

“Yeah. So there’s what Thor calls the ‘Nine Realms,’ which are just nine provinces in our universe. That universe, inclusive, is one dimension. What Nebula calls ‘realms’ is also what Wong calls ‘dimensions’—separate realities that aren’t supposed to interact with each other. The Infinity Stones only affect our dimension, our Nine Realms, our version of reality—nothing else.”

“So when you’re talking about the walls between dimensions…”

“I’m talking about the membrane that prevents two different dimensions from bleeding together, which is a very harmful process we want to prevent at all costs.” Bruce grimaces. “I’ll admit to being a little confused here. The Sanctums also host a lot of magic that bends space _within_ our dimension. Sorcerers are capable of creating portals within our world without creating this kind of dangerous dimensional bleed, kind of like how the Tesseract can teleport between two places and keep the two areas separate.”

“How do sorcerers do this?” Steve asks.

Bruce shrugs. “The best answer I could get is that they use ‘dimensional power.’ I don’t know what that means. I think the most likely answer is that they’ve figured out a way to draw energy from other dimensions, ones with a lot of loose power floating around—maybe one of the Infinity dimensions?”

“Is it like Nebula was saying about the keeper of the Soul Stone?" Steve asks. "These sorcerers can just reach into another dimension and pull something out of it…?”

“I… guess? I can’t say for sure. The science is beyond my comprehension. Regardless of _how_ they do it, though, _what_ they do is bend space—open a gateway to the Sahara Desert and step through it from New York like they were stepping off a curb. This magic is a lot more stable in Sanctums _because_ of the dimensional walls being thinner, but it’s a different effect than, say, what the Space Stone is capable of.”

“So that kind of local magic doesn’t risk opening up dimensional walls,” Natasha says.

“Right,” Bruce agrees. “Which is good, because without the Time Stone, any rifts that crop up between dimensions can't be closed anymore. Best the sorcerers are gonna be able to do if that happens is act as an early warning system, try to buy time with magic while people evacuate the area. Maybe find a way to nuke the rift shut, the way Tony did in New York with the Chitauri.”

“That’s the kind of dimensional bleed we’re talking about?” asks Steve.

“Yeah. If any dimensional rift opens up, it’s gonna be catastrophic. Without the Tesseract around, it’s not as likely to happen, but…” He gestures to Natasha. “Getting back to the point—the Time Stone doesn’t change the actual passage of time. It only undoes the _effects_ of time on a limited scope of matter. Time still passes. Our _perception_ of time might stop or be altered; clocks might stop, but it doesn’t change that time marches on. Matter affected by the Time Stone will experience forces like gravity differently than it usually does. We don’t have a way to understand this kind of thing except to talk about it _as though_ time is being undone.” Bruce turns to Steve. “When Thanos reassembled Vision after Wanda destroyed the stone—you still remember seeing him destroyed, right?”

“No.”

Bruce blinks. “No?”

Steve turns to check on the jet’s displays. “I was unconscious. Thanos was gone by the time I woke up.”

“Oh. Well, I saw it—or the blowback from it, anyway. If time was really ‘undone,’ I wouldn’t be able to remember it, because it wouldn’t have happened. In reality, time kept passing normally; Vision _was_ destroyed, and _then_ he was undestroyed. Thanos reversed the forces acting on the stone until the matter had reassembled to the way it had been before.”

“Including re-instilling life in Vision.”

Bruce nods, eyebrows steepled. “The Time Stone might be the only thing we know of capable of effectively reversing death.” 

Whether in hope or dread, Steve’s heart starts to pound. “So we can’t go back in time...”

“No. That’s not what the Time Stone does. The most we could do, _hypothetically_ , is—don’t look at me like that, Steve,” Bruce says, “because the news is not good. We’re a week out from the Cataclysm already, which means that the wielder of the Time Stone would, first of all, have to undo a _week_ ’s worth of matter distribution, which is… an _insane_ undertaking. Second of all, they’d have to undo it across the entire universe. We’re talking planetary drift, unburning stars kind of scale. Strange was once able to undo about two minutes of matter distribution in central Hong Kong to close a dimensional rift, and according to Wong, that alone took exceptional power. Your standard guy isn’t gonna be able to replicate that effect unless he had all six Infinity Stones to start, and _even then_ ,” Bruce says, cutting off Steve's interjection, “messing with the world on that kind of scale is dangerous to the tune of spontaneous black holes opening up and killing us all. Anyone _smart_ wouldn’t even try, or he’d risk swallowing up the entire dimension. _Conservatively._ ”

Steve leans back in his chair, bile in his throat. He hadn’t realized he’d been putting stake in the Time Stone living up to its name until now. “So it’s useless.”

“It was useful to Thanos,” Bruce says. “Think of it as a built-in safety. You fail at one goal, you can just isolate what went wrong and turn it back to a previous state of matter.”

“But it’s not gonna help us undo the Cataclysm, even if we did get our hands on it.”

Bruce shakes his head, mouth grim. “Sorry.”

Steve runs a hand over his face, trying to get his reaction under control. “Okay. Wong give any hints about how to get to it?”

“No. He said Agamotto created the customs around the Stone’s use, but most likely the stone itself has been here for centuries. It's not replicable like the Soul Stone, as far as he could tell me.”

“What about this dimensional magic?” Natasha asks. “Is there any way we could channel that? Pull some of the Time Stone essence out of a dimension, the way sorcerers do?”

“Maybe,” Bruce says, looking pained. “But even if we could isolate which of the millions of dimensions held the time aether, it would take a long time to learn how to do it, and it’d also be _catastrophically_ dangerous. Remember what I said about how we have no way to close a dimensional rift? Using this kind of power unchecked is gonna result in disaster. Reaching through dimensional walls, _especially_ to ones that have been explicitly hidden to prevent the corruption of the multiverse, is—” 

But Bruce cuts off with a frown. He looks at Steve, then holds up his hands as though blocking everything but Steve out of his focus. Then he shakes his head. “Scope issue,” he mutters.

Steve frowns, exchanging a look with Natasha. “Sorry?”

“Nothing,” Bruce says. “Let me think about it first. The point is that we don’t have a solution on this, sorry. Just information.”

Steve sighs hard and looks out the dash. “I guess that’s a start,” he says, but it doesn’t feel like one. 

Nor does it feel like a week since the Snap. It feels like months, like eternity, and they’re no closer to a way forward than they were when they started.

Shuri had said it would take months to get right. It might even be years before they…

Steve shuts his eyes. He adjusts their course, trying to stay clear of the cast of smoke from the city. Bruce scribbles notes; Natasha sits beside Steve, looking out the window with her wrist propped on her knee. 

Time marches by in intransigent silence, impervious to their efforts to move mountains as mice.

  


  


  


  


Shuri, predictably, is standing at her station when they walk back into the workroom in the palace. 

“What have you found?” she asks, not looking up. 

“Gauntlet,” Steve says, holding it up. He sees Stark stretched out on a set of chairs along one wall, hand over his eyes. Steve knows that look; Tony only wishes he was unconscious. 

“Thor found you,” Shuri says.

“He did.” He sets the gauntlet down on her console. “Said you wanted it back for testing.”

Shuri still hasn’t looked at him, eyes busy scanning a display. Steve has the impression she’s calculating even as she holds the conversation. “There are obstacles.” She seems to realize her distraction and meets Steve’s eye. “To the building of the receptacle, to prevent the gauntlet from bleeding radiation.”

Continuing a conversation Steve hadn't been there to start. He's relieved Thor filled him in. “What kind of obstacles?”

“Well, for one thing,” comes Rocket’s ambient voice, “we still don’t know what kind of radiation we’re even dealing with.” Steve eventually finding him sitting slouched behind Shuri with his back to the console. He’s surrounded by tablets and covered in crumbs, a comically large cup of coffee by one leg. An empty box of cookies has been thrown against the wall in apparent frustration. “Can’t know what kind of box will hold the thing until we know for sure the Infinity Stones aren’t just gonna melt it.”

“Is that possible?” asks Steve.

“Over time,” Shuri says. Her eyes are bloodshot, but from upset or exhaustion, Steve can’t tell. “Worse than trailing radiation would be doing so without knowledge.”

“Mind Stone scan isn’t enough to go on?” Steve asks.

“It gives us some information.” She turns back to the display. “But we are hindered by the fact that it powered a life form. Our readings are depleted. With the information Thor gave us on the Reality Stone—”

“Thor?” Steve interrupts. “The Reality Stone? He knows it?”

Shuri nods. “I am surprised he didn’t mention it.”

“We were distracted.”

“We are trying to track down Jane Foster now,” Shuri says. “But of course there is only a fifty percent chance we will succeed.” Her mouth presses thin and bitter. Steve hates the cynicism on her; wishes he could take it from her and carry it himself. “Thor had no leads, claimed he could not be distracted.”

“What does Jane have to do with this?”

“She was the one who found it, the Reality Stone. It used her as a vessel.”

“A _vessel_?”

“Apparently she was able to step into another realm where the Stone had been banished, at which point—according to Thor—the aether used her body to transport itself to…” She shuts her eyes, remembering. “Malekith. Some dark elf,” she clarifies, in response to Steve’s confused expression. “The details aren’t clear. But the aether using Foster’s body as a vessel is important for several reasons. For one thing, it appears that it did so in order to complete a verbal command that had been issued to it five millennia past.”

Steve stares. “You’re joking.”

“This is what Thor tells me. However, it does suggest that someone with sufficient power may be able to verbally command the Infinity aethers—tell them how to behave—and have their orders followed. _Sufficient_ power,” she says, holding up a finger. “Key words.” She gestures and brings up a display; a projection of the gauntlet is shown in three dimensions. “Which led me to thinking: might the wielder of this gauntlet be capable of forcing the stones to action with willpower alone? That is what the gauntlet is for: to channel such whims, to bring them into being. Verbal commands may be an extension of this will. Thor believes the Reality Stone used Foster as a vessel because she was the first autonomous being the aether encountered between being issued the command to infect Malekith and being banished before it could complete its objective.”

“The aether was ordered to infect Malekith?”

“In a manner of speaking. Malekith himself issued the order; he wished for the aether to imbue him with additional strength. The trouble is that, according to the tests Asgard performed on Foster when she was infected, aether can only provide power to someone by converting it from another source—life force, for example. Thus Malekith _was_ infected; in time, the aether would have consumed him entirely, as it consumes anyone. Now—” Shuri throws up numbers beside the model of the gauntlet. “Simulations suggest that the gauntlet mitigates a great deal of the consumption of a wielder’s life force. It serves as a conduit between the stones and the wielder—facilitates a great deal of the energy transference between wielder and stone.”

Steve perks up. “Energy transference.”

Shuri nods, lips pursed. “It is interesting. A wielder of the Infinity Stones engages in an exchange of energies: he or she withdraws energy from the stones into their body when they execute their commands. So extraction of Infinity Stone aether by other means does seem at least likely. It is a matter of figuring out how." Shuri taps the display. "So far, based on my experiments, the glove does not appear capable of isolating energy strands and drawing them out of the stone.”

“Why is that important?”

“Because there is no Reality Stone. There is only Reality aether, the stone's energy in raw form, uncontained. Nebula suggested Thanos may have crushed this aether into shape with his bare hand, but that cannot be done by the likes of you and I. Thus we need a vessel to put the Infinity aether into, and some method of pulling it from its source to place it somewhere else.”

“And that's possible.”

"It may be as simple as issuing a verbal command. But I do not like those odds." She looks up at him, eyes alive. "It does seem possible. It is simply a matter of sorting out how." 

Steve sets a relieved hand on her shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, grave.

Shuri very nearly manages to smile, setting her tablet aside. “Did you find anything in your files from SHIELD?”

Steve takes the stack of files Natasha hands him. “This is everything we could find on their experiments trying to make weapons out of Tesseract energy from 2011 onward. They ultimately failed, but maybe the research can inform your theories on energy transference. Hydra did it during the Second World War. I also think that Howard Stark, one of SHIELD's key researchers—” Tony sits up in the corner of the room, illusion of sleep abandoned—"knew more than he wrote down. Howard’s shorthand is hard to parse, but there might be something there. Maybe Tony can help fill in the gaps.”

“What gaps?” Tony asks, rolling to his feet.

“I don’t pretend to know anything concrete about science, but I’ve hung around you and Bruce long enough to know that experiments tend to need things like hypotheses and equations," Steve says. "These notes had none of those things.” 

“Howard did a lot of research on the Tesseract in the ‘50s and ‘80s,” Natasha adds, handing Stark the files, “but not much in between. We can’t tell why, and we’re not sure what we’re missing.”

“My first thought was that he had another set of notes somewhere,” Steve says.

“He did," Stark says simply, "but it all had to do with Stark Industries. Arc reactors, nitramene, new periodic table element he never completed. Stuff for profit.”

“Tony,” Steve says seriously. “If you have the rest of Howard’s files…”

Stark doesn’t bother to conceal the stress from his eyes. “Yeah,” he sighs, “let me call Rhodey, see if he can wrestle the notebooks out of the boxes from the Tower.”

“How is this only coming out now?” Steve asks, but though Tony stares at him, he doesn't answer.

Steve sighs as Stark walks away, turning back to Shuri with a frown. “How did Jane get _to_ the Reality Stone?” he asks her. “Figuring out energy transference only solves half the problem. If we can’t get to it…”

“It appeared she was caught in some kind of mystical event.”

Behind Shuri, there’s the gentle thud of a fuzzy head against the console. “The Convergence,” Rocket says, like he's weary of its very mention. “Once every five millennia or so, the universe aligns, all nine realms lined up in a row. Apparently it’s like a cheat code to the universe. You want to get somewhere quick? Try the Convergence.” He makes a forward motion with his hand. “Or so the legends say. Thor claims it’s real, but…”

“That’s how Jane got to the Stone?”

“Apparently.”

Steve squints at him unhappily. “Once every _five millennia?_ ”

“Uh-huh,” Rocket says flatly. “Think you’re shit out of luck on that one, pal.”

Steve looks to Bruce. “You hearing this?”

“I’m listening,” Bruce says with a frown. 

“Sounds like portals.”

“Could be. I don’t know enough about it to make the call.”

“Could be Foster just found a weak point between realms at the wrong time,” Rocket says. “It happens!”

Steve winces. “It does?”

“Not usually twice in the same lifetime, but yeah. Never know when you’re gonna find a wormhole to some random place in the universe.”

“Gonna go out on a limb and guess we don’t have a shot at making that kind of thing happen ourselves,” Steve says.

“Oh, no,” says Rocket. “If we had that kind of luck—or that kind of firepower—we sure as shit wouldn’t still be sitting here.”

“Did Thor at least say where this wormhole was? I assume it was on Earth.”

“Somewhere in London,” Shuri provides. 

Steve’s not sure what to do with that, but it is more than they had before. “You two fine to keep working on the gauntlet and energy transference a while?" he asks. "I’d like to talk with Nebula.” 

“She tends to stay in her quarters,” Shuri says tersely.

“ _Some_ people seem to think I talk too much,” Rocket adds.

Steve nods and turns to go, but Shuri calls him back. “Ah—Captain.” 

“Yeah.”

“If we might speak later.” Shuri’s mouth presses thin when Steve turns to look. “Privately.”

“I was hoping to talk to you too. How’s tonight?”

“Tonight is fine.”

“Find you here?” Steve asks; and with Shuri’s nod, he moves again toward the door.

  


  


  


  


Nebula appears to be soldering her arm when Steve knocks at the door. 

“Oh.” He recoils. “Uh… I can come back.”

Nebula stares. “Why?”

Steve hesitates, but then steps forward, shoving his hands humbly into his pockets. “That’s, um… a nice prosthetic.”

“Not for sale.”

“I… didn’t think it was. It just—” His stomach sinks. “Reminds me of a friend. Is this a bad time?”

“For what?”

“Wanted to ask you for a favour.”

“A _favour_.”

“Our leads are drying up,” Steve says. “We can’t get to the Time Stone, Reality Stone, Space Stone, or Mind Stone. I haven’t asked Rocket for sure, but it doesn’t sound like we can get to the Power Stone either.”

“It is unlikely.”

“But we _can_ get to the Soul Stone.”

Nebula stares. An icy, awkward moment goes by. “I have told you,” she says slowly, “you are not prepared—”

“I want to test that theory myself.” He gestures behind him to the lab. “What we need is an Infinity Stone to start with, to study, to experiment on, so that we can start to understand what the hell we’re dealing with.”

“What’s wrong with the Mind Stone scan?”

“It’s diluted by the fact there was a life form attached to it.”

“So remove the life form variables.”

“Easier said. We only have so much information.”

“Then work on it some more.”

“I want,” Steve says, “to get the Soul Stone.”

“Then you’ll do it without my help.”

“We know where it is. We know how to get to it.”

“You would sacrifice them for the sake of your information?”

Steve pauses. A precarious beat passes. “I’m not convinced that’s necessary. I want to find out for sure.”

Nebula glares at him, plain in her distaste for him or his ideas. “And what do you expect me to do?”

“I want you to take me there,” Steve says. “To Vormir.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have given you my reasons.”

“You may have to get involved eventually, sooner or later, if we want to beat this.”

“I am not convinced that you are remotely worthy—”

“Maybe I’m not,” Steve interjects. “But I have new information that suggests I might be.”

“What information is that?”

“I was injected with a serum when I was young. It transformed me from a much smaller man into what I am now. I’m learning for the first time that the serum might have been made from an Infinity Stone.”

Nebula stares, eyes searching. “That’s impossible.”

“I don’t think it is. They’ve extracted energy from this stone before, put it into weapons. The same stone was later in the possession of someone who recreated the serum; that seems like a big coincidence. And we know—or think we know—that other stones’ energy is capable of stranding and separation.” Steve steps further into the room. “I want Shuri to do some tests, but it could be that I’m able to wield the stones better than the average person. You’re saying I’m not ready to do what it takes to get the Soul Stone yet? Maybe you’re right. But as soon as these tests are done, I want to find out, and more than that, I want to meet this keeper. I want to know what he does and how he does it, and what else he might be able to tell us about the stones.”

“You’re insane.”

“Just determined.”

“The planet is toxic—”

“You said that might’ve been a myth.”

“ _Chance_ is not an operating imperative.”

“That’s why I want you to come with me.” Steve shrugs. “I don’t know the first thing about other realms. I’ve never left Earth. If I had it my way, I’d never have to. I can fly a jet, but a jet’s not a spaceship. You and Rocket have knowledge beyond my comprehension—”

“Then ask him.”

“I will, if you say no. But you’re the one with knowledge about this place, about this Stone.” He holds her eye, as intense as her. “If you don’t want to be part of this, that’s fine. But if that’s true, I have to ask myself what you’re still doing here.”

Nebula stares. It’s hard to tell from the look on her face, but Steve has the impression he’s struck a nerve.

“I want to take a look at this planet and start to separate fact from fiction,” Steve goes on. “That’s step one. As soon as I know there’s a chance I might be able to wield these things and not get eaten up, it’s a step I want to take. I’d prefer you were with me.”

Nebula just shakes her head. 

“Is there no way we can tell whether or not the planet’s toxic or not from outer space?” Steve asks.

“There may be,” she says stiltedly. “There may also be mystical barriers beyond our—”

“Thanos made it there.”

“ _Thanos_ had three Infinity Stones.”

Steve aborts a sigh. “Isn’t it worth at least checking out? Are you telling me you’re not curious?”

“Curiosity is not—”

“An operating imperative,” Steve finishes, eyes closing. “I know.”

Nebula has, at least, stopped strenuously objecting. Steve opens her eyes to see a gem of intrigue in the pinch of her features. 

“There is much we do not know,” she says.

“And there’s only one way to find out.”

“That position carries risk.”

“This whole operation is risky, Nebula. The rest of this thing is gonna take a long time. I’m not a scientist; I’m a—” _Soldier_ , he’d almost said; but hadn’t he been spending the last two years trying to be anything else? “I don’t plan to wait around for others to figure things out,” he says instead, “wondering what I can do when I can see a way forward.”

“This is not a way forward.”

“It’s a _chance_ ,” Steve says with an edge of frustration. “All I’m looking for is a chance. If the planet’s toxic, then at least we’ll know. If it’s impenetrable, then we’ll know that too. The more we know, the more we can follow through on.” He shrugs, then lets his hands slap against his thighs. “Look—I plan on going. You can come or not.”

Steve stands still a moment, but when Nebula doesn’t say anything, he turns to leave the room.

“Captain.”

Steve stalls in the door, eyes closing with hope.

“If it comes to be that you are able to tolerate the stones,” Nebula says, voice low, “and only then… I will take you within range. That is all I can guarantee.”

Steve sighs his relief, face tipping to the ceiling. “Thank you.”

“Which stone is it?” she asks. Steve turns to see her no longer looking at him, grabbing a tool to prod at her arm. “That made you?”

“Space.”

“Primary effects?”

“Fast metabolism. Used to be…” He gestures with his hand. “Shorter, sicker.”

“Hmm.” Whatever she gleans, she doesn’t convey, only returning to her arm with implements in hand. “You should do what you can to divest yourself from your friends.”

Steve waves a hand and turns out of the room. “I’ll let you know of the test results when I have them.”

“I await with bated breath.”

  


  


  


  


Shuri leads him into a shuttle that night, surprising him by being unattended; Steve wonders how she got the Dora to leave them alone. A brief and silent ride through twilight later, the shuttle enters a mountainside mine not far from the tower that had housed Bucky, housed Vision. 

Purple gleams in the walls—an extension of Wakanda's sparkling sky, somehow buried in the earth. Steve's seen beautiful things before, but this ranks up there with the most nameless among them, that beggar description. 

"Is this vibranium?" Steve asks, awe eclipsing all else. 

"In its raw form," Shuri agrees. "You never saw this. I am entering this way to avoid additional attention to our entry. There is much turbulence in the Kingdom; it is one thing for the Queen to be sneaking away, without guard, another to be taking a foreigner to such a vulnerable place." 

Steve glances over, but her tone ends the conversation. He opts for silence as she emerges through into the open air, settling the shuttle down on a landing pad and showing Steve into a tower not far. 

The lift takes them deep down into the mine, finally opening into another lab. This kind of lab is much more what Steve might have expected for Wakanda: though abandoned, it is massive and bright, boasting inactive displays too advanced for Steve to parse.

“Vibranium research and development,” Shuri explains, leaning hard against a console. She looks tired; it’s the first time Steve’s seen her let her guard down in a while. Behind them, the hissing of the lift opening catches Steve's attention; not long later, two Dora silently station themselves at the end of the hall. 

Shuri rolls her eyes and turns to activate a display. "I had wanted for us to discuss uninterrupted, but we may not have much time. I am concerned that your colleagues may not respond well to our discussion." 

"I am, too. Thanks for bringing me here." He glances idly at the Dora at the end of the hall, but Shuri waves his wary look aside. 

"They will say nothing," she confers. "If they have not hauled me out of here already." 

“How are you holding up?" Steve asks. "Transitioning to being Queen."

“I’ll not burden you.”

“I know what it’s like to carry the expectations of a nation on your shoulders. Not as Queen of Wakanda, obviously, but…” 

Shuri searches his eyes with strange intensity. “I am being challenged for the crown," she says suddenly—quiet and intense, maybe so the Dora can't hear. "I will ask you to keep it quiet about it. I tell you only so that you will understand if my attentions are divided. I have not been in the lab as much as I should have since you went abroad—”

“Don't worry about that. Who’s challenging you?”

“M’Baku—leader of the Jabari tribe. It is his right to challenge. More than that, I should like to give it over. But my mother forbids it.”

“Your mother...?”

“I am the last in the royal family line. She is not the only one who wishes for me to hold the throne. I am meant to carry my brother’s legacy forth—my father's, his father's before him. M’Baku is a good man and a capable warrior, but Okoye, too, claims his judgment is poor in issuing a challenge now.” She gestures around the lab. “We are in a state of emergency. Our functionality as a nation and government is stunted. We must retain stability; there is mourning to be done, yet he challenges for control.” She shrugs. “On another day, M’Baku might have been a good King and Black Panther both, but under principle and pressure I can allow neither.”

“That’s a lot to deal with.”

“Luckily, I have plenty of support. My mother is rallying the tribes in support of my reign, but in environments of fear, pressures come fast to boil. I fear things may change faster than I know how to respond. Among other things, I remain aware of how I must retain access to my lab.” She gestures around.

“If you do lose access, Stark has equipment...”

“It is not my equipment,” she says flatly.

“No. I'm saying there are other ways. Highness, there’s nothing I can say about the political situation. But this thing with the stones? There’s enough of us in this to give us a second chance. No matter what happens, you have my support, one hundred percent. It's not down to you to maintain rule just so our efforts don't have to find a new lab.”

If neither of them believe everything that he said, the moment passes in shared gratitude.

“We should get started," Shuri says at last, rolling to her feet and manipulating the console. The display of the gauntlet appears again. “Wielding the stones,” she says, gesturing. “Thor has declined.”

“Yes.”

“He prefers for you to do it, and for him to be a contingency.”

“I’m in agreement. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about—I think I have information that’ll confirm I’m strong enough to wield the stones.”

Shuri points thoughtfully. “We are on the same wavelength, you and I.” She brings up an approximate scan of Steve—much less detailed than her other diagrams, but it's enough of a likeness to make Steve wince. “I have been running simulations based on information Stark gave me about… you." 

"That Stark gave you." 

"He offered them in the course of his objection to you wielding the stones. In fact, it made you sound quite well-suited. He claimed, for example, that you survived immersion in extreme cold for several decades. I had heard this, of course, but not of the details.” She looks at him, unflinching. “You were found fully submerged in water?”

Steve hesitates. One of those things he prefers not to think about, avoids when he can. “Yes.”

“This must be difficult to discuss, but I must ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“There was no other element to your freezing process…? You simply became hypothermic and lost consciousness.”

“Lost consciousness first.” Though that's not entirely true. Glimpses of the ship still show up in his dreams from time to time; he can’t move, it’s dark, and he thinks he’s drowning. 

“But you became submerged and did not drown,” Shuri asks.

“Seems that way. I wasn’t really aware of the situation’s details.”

Shuri reads Steve’s face, like she’s hunting out the lie. “Well, that is not meant to be possible—yet it is. That tells me there is a reasonable possibility that your ability to handle all kinds of effects—including stones’ radiation—may be increased." She points at his partial diagram. "With your permission, I would like to take a sample of your blood as well as some scans so that we might understand your physiology more completely.”

Steve's already rolling up his sleeves. “You can have whatever you want. That's the same thing I wanted to mention to you—while we were stateside, Natasha found information that seems to suggest the supersoldier serum was infused with Tesseract energy.”

Shuri looks at Steve sharply. He's adjusted to well to the possibility that he forgets how insane it sounds. “What?” she asks.

“It could be a lie, or we could be wrong. I was hoping you'd be able to confirm or deny.”

Shuri studies him darkly, like she might see something that way. “I find it doubtful,” she mutters.

“So did I at first, but the more I learn about these things the more it seems like anything’s possible. You said yourself Malekith derived power from the aether in his body.”

“Yes, but his metabolism was…” She trails off. “How long has it been since you received the serum? Excluding the time unconscious.”

Steve counts. “Roughly eight years?”

Her expression suggests she finds this number ludicrous. “It should certainly have consumed you from within by now.”

“Well,” he says dryly, “any information you can get.”

If skeptically, Shuri nods. “With any luck, we will come away from this with some understanding of just what you are capable of. How long you might withstand the stones’ power, a final breaking point. Some sort of timeline, regardless of—”

They’re interrupted when Okoye’s voice echoes sharply through the lab.

Steve can’t understand a word she’s saying, but her tone conveys enough: she’s unhappy, and not shy about it. A short clamber of voices suggests someone’s trying to warn her of something, but as Steve’s moved out of sight from the door, he can’t see what’s going on.

Shuri seems to have expected this. With a flat expression, she too calls Okoye's name, then a short clip of something in Xhosa—but Okoye seems undeterred. Shooting an apologetic glance to Steve, Shuri steps forward to intercept her—

But when Okoye barrels in anyway, Steve sees what everyone’s warning her against. As she spots him, Okoye stops talking abruptly. 

Steve’s looking at Wakanda’s new Black Panther—clad in a black vibranium uniform, helmet clasped against her hip.

Okoye holds up a finger as Steve combats a smile. “Not a word,” she tells him. “Not. One. Word.”

Steve purses his lips and nods. With a pointed glare, Okoye mutters something sidelong to Shuri and sets back down the corridor, tirade in Xhosa slowly regaining speed. 

Shuri looks at Steve, looking gently chastened. “My apologies.”

“None needed,” Steve says; and as he waits for Shuri to amass equipment to take his blood, he finds himself smiling as lift doors slide closed.

  



	9. Scaling a Still Planet

  


Something’s knocking at the door.

Steve knows without looking that Natasha’s awake and sitting up beside him. Her hand is reaching, maybe for a weapon. Steve slides his fingers over hers where they’re splain against the mattress—in staying or solidarity, or maybe both.

Two of them won’t be enough against Thanos. But maybe—

Steve blinks around. They’re in Wakanda. Thanos isn’t here.

Natasha’s heartbeat fills his ears. Or maybe it’s his own. 

“Who is it?” he calls, clearing his throat.

“It’s me,” Shuri says.

Steve exhales. Beside him, Natasha rolls her eyes in exhaustion and collapses back against the pillows. 

“Just a second.” Steve rolls out of bed and drags on a pair of sweatpants, stepping up to the door. “What’s up?” he asks blearily, leaning against the frame.

“I have your results.”

Steve hasn’t checked the time, but it doesn’t look like Shuri’s gone to bed in a day. Still, she manages to flick her bloodshot eyes mockingly up to Steve’s hair. “Radiation tolerance and the like,” she goes on slowly. “I apologize for the late hour, but I assumed you prefer to hear the outcomes privately.”

“Yes.” Steve glances at Nat. “Alright?”

Natasha’s scrolling through her phone—or pretending to. Wakanda still has service, but most apps have been out of use for days. Maybe Twitter’s back up; Silicon Valley might've found a way to keep milling. Someone’s gotta be the cockroach.

“Fine,” Natasha says idly.

“I’ll be back in an hour.” He’s not sure why they’ve started giving timelines every time they part ways, but it’s a comfort. Natasha’d told Steve when she’d be back from Des Moines and arrived home on time, and Steve had been so happy to know when to expect her that now they do it every time. It’s stupid; maybe a little codependent to boot. But after so many years fighting in close quarters, it’s easier on them both to know where the other is. Back-up for the end of the world, should it come for them again.

Steve slides the door closed behind him and follows Shuri down the corridor. “Is the news good?”

“That depends on your definition. You will at least be interested in what I’ve found. You are…” She glances at him. “A fascinating subject.”

“I’ve been told.”

“There is much to discover about you that I have not managed, but it will do for a start.”

Shuri locks the door behind her the second they get back into her workspace. Steve’s not sure when he’s seen any part of the palace this quiet. “Are you competent with biology?” Shuri asks.

“Not really.” 

She draws up a diagram of Steve on her displays. Steve winces as numbers appear beside his outline. He doesn’t bother even trying to decipher the statistics; just waits for her to explain. “It was helpful to have your full body scan,” Shuri says; “thank you for agreeing. Tests on your blood and marrow samples were interesting and provided complementary—but perplexing—information.” She hesitates. “How much detail would you like?”

“What are my options?”

Shuri circles her hand in a counterclockwise motion. Suddenly Steve is looking at a projection of his younger, smaller self compared against his current form.

“Oh, no,” Steve says instantly. “No, I don’t think I want to know.”

Shuri nods and ages him up again, easy as pie. “In short: the serum has made your body highly adaptable to myriad conditions,” she begins. “I ran several simulations based on the coordinates where you were found in the Arctic some years ago, applying the environmental conditions for that period of time, and simulated the effects of those conditions to both your current form and that of a regular human man. The regular man perished quickly,” she says flatly, unsparing to his feelings. “Your body as it _is_ , on the other hand…” 

She waves a hand. Steve’s display grows blue, as though cold; the numbers change, but they don’t flatline. “It chose to shut down,” Shuri explains. “What I mean is, it chose methods of longer-term preservation when exposed to the cold. Crucially, these methods should not be something your body knows how to do. But it does. Rather than allowing itself to die, it was able to enter a state of stasis—a hibernation of sorts. Over time, this state slowly succumbed to a state of cryostasis.”

Steve already feels like he’s fielding more information than he knows how to handle. “What’s the difference? Between hibernation and…”

“In hibernation, your body was likely anticipating being taken out of your environment in the near future. It kept your systems functioning at a very low level. It was an advanced hypothermic state. Enough oxygen and circulation remained that you were able to retain your limbs, and…” She hesitates, glancing at him. “Your consciousness may have been roused from time to time when your body sensed there was possibility of recovery from your adverse conditions.” 

So she knew. Science kept revealing more about Steve than he liked. “But that state didn’t last.”

“No,” Shuri agrees. “In the simulations I ran, after approximately twenty years under the ice, your body became unresponsive to stimuli and entered a state where you no longer took oxygen into your body. Your organs were nevertheless preserved by the cold. Much as with cryopods—” she gestured vaguely behind her—“this condition can be reversible, under the right conditions. With regular mortals, before putting them in such devices, we inject their blood with an agent that is capable of ensuring basic functions are maintained at an extremely low baseline so they do not perish. But with some…” Her eyes flash to Steve’s. “As with Barnes, for example—this addition was not necessary. His body was able to make the recovery on its own.”

Steve’s stomach drops. “How?”

“I do not have his data the way I have yours. He simply told us it was unnecessary to give him additional injections and was proved right. I…” She purses her lips. “Have theories.”

“Did he…” Steve bites hard at his lip to steady his voice. “Did you ever find out for sure if he was given a serum? If that’s why he…”

But Shuri just looks at him, until she doesn’t. “From what I could discern of his memories,” she says quietly, “it is likely.”

“Oh.”

“And so it seems likely the serum has caused the cryopod effect in you both without needing an injection. Here is what happened when I ran a defrosting simulation on you.” She waves a hand. On the screen, Steve’s vitals rise quickly from their minimal levels—spiking high at first, and then stabilizing fast. “Your body resumes operations with almost no trace of having been interrupted. The only significant sign that you had undergone a fatal process was that your organs seemed briefly to create more energy than they should have in a surge to protect your body.”

“How?”

“Again—unclear.”

“But you have theories.”

Her eyes flick to his. Steve's starting to be able to read her. “Perhaps,” she says slowly, “the agent in your blood… this serum. Perhaps it spontaneously created the energy required to rouse you from near-death without harm.”

“You mean the Tesseract.”

“I could not for certain say these energy readings are consistent with Tesseract power.”

“But...”

“I have nothing to compare it to,” she interrupts. She stops there, as though unwilling to admit to a hypothesis she has no concrete evidence for.

“Shuri,” Steve says, low. “Is it possible?”

Shuri doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then she looks at him, head-on, eyes direct and shining. “It is possible,” she tells him, firm.

Steve leans against the console, breath leaving his chest. “What does ‘possible’ mean to a layperson? I’m not here to evaluate your hypothesis or to check on scientific integrity. I just want to know if there’s strong evidence that it’s _not_ the Tesseract.”

Shuri looks at him with thin lips, then brings up a second screen—the Mind Stone scan, its inner elements isolated. Beside it, the first screen seems to break down Steve’s blood into disparate components until the pair of them come to synthesize:

_81.03% Match._

“The agent in your blood… very likely shares an ancestor with the Mind Stone,” Shuri says. Then she sets down the control console in her hands and paces nervously, setting a hand at her mouth. “Perhaps that is the most I could say… _concretely_.”

Steve just stares at the two screens a long time. It’s all he can do. “Okay,” he says, throatily.

Shuri paces. Steve stares. Eventually he registers the reach of her anxiety. “You’re nervous,” he remarks.

“I am thinking.”

“Can I ask—what do you _think_ it is?”

“I think it is the Tesseract.”

Steve nods. “Thank you."

Shuri gives a sharp breath and strides back to claim the console again, bringing up a new display as though there’d been no interruption. “If we are both willing to make that assumption,” she says on a sigh, “then there is good news and bad news.”

Steve only needs to take one look at the sudden blue glow in the veins of his display to understand what kind of news they’re talking about. “Uh-huh.”

“The good news is that, much as with Vision, the Tesseract appears to work in you on a positive feedback cycle. The relationship is symbiotic, if you will. It feeds off you as life force—all Infinity Stones are powered this way—but, uniquely, it also contributes to your regeneration at a greater pace than your life force decays. In other words, it takes from your body, but it subsequently creates more energy than it took.”

“And that makes me… more powerful, more robust, more able to sustain effects that should be fatal.”

“From what I can discern,” Shuri says, “yes. I am encountering the same obstacles with your readings as I did with Vision’s. You are a life force with algorithms of your own. Separating that information from this…” She gestures at his blue-veined effigy. “It is complicated, to say the least.”

“But I can… die.” He thinks of Bucky, who died right in front of him; there was no Tesseract energy to save him then. “There must be a point where…”

“An injury serious enough to impede good functioning—blood loss, irreparable physical trauma, or—” her expression turns sardonic and pained—“disassembly at a molecular level. Any of these could overpower the agent’s ability to keep you alive. Let me be clear: what is in your blood is _not_ the Tesseract. It is, we assume, _of_ the Tesseract; it works, or so we presume—”

“Drop the presumptions,” Steve interjects. “Let’s talk like it’s the Tesseract.”

“It is dependent on your continued living to function. If your body is harmed to an extent that the agent cannot repair you, the agent will also perish.”

“So… I stay alive, it stays alive, we keep each other going?”

“Effectively, yes. But there is a point of diminishing returns. Barring events that might instantly kill you, there also comes a point where the agent begins to corrupt your body at a rate it cannot repair.” She taps a knuckle against the console. “The symbiosis is stable until such a time as you wield the stones. Then you begin to decay, just as any mortal would who tries to touch them.”

The blue in his avatar’s veins has turned a nasty, sickly-looking black. “That,” Shuri mutters, pointing, “is radiation sickness, eating at you from within.”

“So I wield the stones,” Steve says, “and the Tesseract agent destroys me from the inside out?”

“Slowly,” Shuri says carefully. Now Steve understands what she meant about there being good news and bad news. “Eventually. This, loosely speaking, is perhaps best described as a gradual process of corruption. The nature of the positive feedback loop of energy in your system unfortunately means that the Tesseract already in you, when introduced to another Infinity Stone, will be bolstered in its power to a degree your body cannot handle.”

“So you’re saying I can’t wield the stones.”

“In fact I am saying… that you can. Perhaps better than anyone on the planet.” Steve stares, hardly daring to believe what he’s hearing. “I am beginning with the worst case to impress upon you the gravity of the endeavor,” Shuri goes on. “This state of corruption—” she points to the display—“is after you have wielded all six stones continuously for approximately eighteen hours.”

Steve straightens. “Eighteen hours?”

“This is the point of no return—the point at which your molecular data moves from corrupted to decayed.”

“I can wield all six stones—for eighteen _hours_?”

“Unless my calculations are wrong… it is likely. Until that point of diminishing returns, you will likely be able to retain rational thought and control of your faculties. After this point, however, it is not clear what happens. The data I have becomes less active than the data I do not, and so I cannot be sure what may happen to you then.”

“I shouldn’t…” Steve shakes his head. “I shouldn’t need more than eighteen hours. Once I have all six, can’t I just… do what I need to do pretty much instantly?”

“That is assuming you understand how to wield the Stones, at least to a degree incapable of error.”

“So I might… need transport time, time to make things work.”

“For example.”

“But eighteen hours…”

Shuri nods. She takes the kind of slow, careful breath that seems to have balled in the depths of Steve’s body, unable to break out. “It may be enough,” Shuri tells him. “There is no doubt that the faster you are able to complete the mission, the better your likelihood of success. Your body will be fed on—and _fuelled_ —by the six most potent sources of power in the universe. There is no telling what this—” she points at the display—“may do to your corporeal form; to your willpower; to any number of variables we take for granted.” 

Steve surveils his own projection, nodding slow. “I understand.”

“You are not discouraged.”

“No.” If anything, he's encouraged. Eighteen hours with all six stones… “Okay—wait. Obviously I’m collecting the stones one at a time. Is that eighteen hours cumulative?”

Shuri won’t look at him. With an expression of profound unhappiness, she scales back the timeline until Steve’s diagram looks like his normal self again. “This is you,” she says, “one year after wielding only one stone.”

Steve frowns and leans closer. “What am I looking at?”

“Little change," Shuri admits. "With only one stone, you remain intact on a molecular level for some time. If anything, the most you may see is a slight increase in strength and regeneration, a slight decrease in the need for sleep.”

“One stone… makes me _stronger_?”

“That is what the simulation suggests. It may pair with the Tesseract essence already in your blood and bolster it. Decay will eventually occur, but… perhaps not for eighty years.”

“ _Eighty_? Eighty _years_? Like eight-zero?”

Shuri nods grimly. Steve can’t begin to fathom why. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, but all she seems to have for him is good news—yet she looks like the world is ending to offer it. “The timeline for tolerance decreases exponentially with each additional stone wielded,” she goes on. “With two stones—because of the way they interact with each other, building energy exponentially—decay in your body begins at the ten-year mark. With three stones, decay begins after a little more than one year; with four stones, two months; with five, seven days. Bear in mind that this is with the gauntlet diffusing the energy. Holding any one of these in your hand is very likely to produce much more adverse, probably fatal, results more or less instantly.”

“So—wearing the stones on the glove… I will actually get stronger until this point of diminishing returns, depending on the number of stones I’m wielding. Three stones, I’m _stronger_ for a year… and then it starts taking me apart. Is that right?“

“That is roughly what the simulations suggest. Though you should budget a substantial buffer of time, Captain—my calculations are imprecise at best.”

“I really hope I won’t need half that time,” Steve mutters. 

Shuri looks at him sharply, like he’s said something out of turn, but a moment later she turns calmly back to the display. “We are working to ensure your exposure to the stones is minimized between stone acquisitions,” she explains. “You will have to wield the gauntlet to acquire each one, but there seems to be no reason you could not remove the glove in the interim. This is where the lockbox comes in—somewhere to put the gauntlet when not in use, where its energy readings will not attract attention. We aim to block the stones’ radiation when the gauntlet is inside the box. Presumably your body will eventually return to its—” she gestures at him where he stands—“default state of being, once no longer exposed to the energy of the stones. But Captain, I must be clear: Even at the outset, what seems like improvement in your abilities is in fact a result of the stones feeding off your life force. It should be avoided, as a rule.”

“I understand.” Steve looks up at the display—at the way his body looks hardly changed when exposed only to one stone, as though they may as well be one and the same. 

Eighty years to eighteen hours.

“It’s gonna kill me,” Steve says quietly. He glances to Shuri. “Wielding all six. Isn’t it?”

At first, she doesn’t say anything. Steve has his answer then. “There is a difference between wielding the stones… and deploying them,” she says carefully. “If Thor is to be believed, when Thanos…” She cuts off, looking out the darkened window with a square jaw. “The Cataclysm itself was a major event, a deployment of energy. Thor said Thanos had been injured by it. The use of the stones likely had a shockwave effect against Thanos himself… and he, to my knowledge, did not have Tesseract aether in his blood.”

Steve understands. “So if I try to do something similar…”

“I should think it very likely to kill you,” she says, quiet. “Or at the very least transform you into something I could not describe. If the energy of the stones is within you…”

“I would be deploying myself. Might disintegrate with it.”

Shuri nods. “In brief.”

Steve sighs against the tightness in his ribs—the dreading confirmation of a certainty he already felt.

“So you should choose your moment carefully,” Shuri says, stepping once more to life. “And you should not attempt to deploy the powers of more than, say, two stones at a time unless necessary to complete the mission. You may not get a second chance.”

“Understood.”

Shuri looks at him. Steve looks back. Finally, she reaches a hand and squeezes kindly at his arm—the old Shuri again, peeking through. “We are very lucky,” she says gravely, “to have you here at such a time.”

“I just want to put things right.”

“It would only be right if it did not stand to kill you.” She takes her hand away and looks at the display again, and that aged seriousness set back in her features. She looks too old for someone so young. “Have you considered how you might restore the population?”

Steve sighs, turning to lean back against the console. “I’m drawing blanks. I was counting on the Time Stone to…” He shakes his head. “Banner says no. Even if we did know how to get it, it doesn’t reverse time on a scale like that. Not without more power than we have.”

“Banner did have an interesting idea,” Shuri says, tossing the tablet aside. “A possible… element, at least, in attempting to break through certain membranes in spacetime, to get through to other dimensions—perhaps use their resources to… But—” She chews her lip. “Quantum physics are outside my expertise. It will take time for my knowledge to catch up to his. Plus, of course, there are other more pressing concerns. The box for the gauntlet; my Kingdom.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Steve says. “You’re kinda the lynchpin in this whole operation. We’re not gonna get anywhere if you’re too burned out to work.”

“Well,” she says lightly. “That certainly takes the pressure off.”

"You’ve made more strides in eight days than I thought was possible. You might have to accept the credit for making things right, when the time comes.”

“Hush. I won’t hear that.”

“I mean it, Shuri. I don’t know where we’d be without you.”

Shuri shoots him a thin smile, but there’s too much sadness in it for it to hold much joy. “Unfortunately, I am not sure how to advise you going forward. Until there is an Infinity Stone I might be able to study in its entirety, I am not confident I may even be able to build a box that could contain the radiation of—”

“I might have an answer to that," Steve interrupts. "If I got Nebula to agree to take me to Vormir as long as I could wield the stones… would that help your cause?”

Shuri offers a disbelieving look. “Surely not.”

“It wouldn’t?”

“Oh—I mean of course it would, that would be… but based on what Nebula has to say about _acquiring_ the Stone…”

“Just a recon mission, but you never know. I don’t know what’s involved in getting it, not exactly, but I plan on finding out." He sighs, taking a look around. "It’s not like I’m much help around here. I don’t know atoms from eaves.”

Shuri narrows her eyes. “It is cruel to pun in a time of crisis.” 

Steve cracks a helpless smile. Shuri's mouth twitches too as she nods to the door. “What would you have me tell the others?”

“Ah… the truth, up to a point. No sense pretending like this endeavor isn’t risky, but I don’t want them thinking I’m just sacrificing myself for its own sake.” He glances behind him. “End it at eighteen hours wielding all six. Don’t tell them that deploying the stones is likely to kill me unless you have to. Uh… is that a comfortable enough lie to—”

“We are far past comfort,” Shuri assures him. “I will not find omitting a detail taxing.”

“Thank you.”

As Shuri nods him out of the room, Steve looks back to see her gracing him with an evaluative look. “They have taken very seriously your pledge not to trade lives,” she says, as though finding it strange. Steve hears the implicit admission: _I am not so burdened_.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “I guess they have.” He thinks of three billion people taking to dust, and the eighty-plus years it might take him to turn to same. “Time's proved me wrong before.”

  


  


  


  


### December, 2017

“Something on your mind?” 

Steve had asked it as a tease more than as a genuine question. Bucky was using Steve’s chest as a pillow as he read—by then a custom in the close quarters of Bucky’s roundhouse. Steve could feel the tension in his shoulders, the measured timbre of his breath. Bucky was skilled at a lot of things, but hiding his anxiety hadn’t been among them for years.

Bucky let the book fall on his chest and shot Steve a dirty look. “No,” he lied. “Leave me alone.”

“Just seems like something’s bothering you.”

“Got a book in your hands, you don’t need to read me.”

Steve slid his free hand against Bucky’s chest, resting his palm near his collarbone. “Really don’t have a choice. You’re right here and all.”

For a moment, Bucky didn’t do anything, seemingly caught between rebuke and acceptance. Then his shoulders dropped like a ten-ton weight, in defeat or forced relaxation.

“Thank you,” Steve murmured, but relief didn’t last long. The tension crept back into him, soaking its way through. “You know, I hear talking about it—”

“No you don’t,” Bucky said, hitting him gently with the book’s back cover. “Leave me alone.”

Steve caught Bucky’s wrist, scanning a thumb against it. In a slow, casual drift, he directed Bucky’s hand to hit himself in the face with his own book. 

Bucky threw the book aside and straddled Steve with a growl. "Is that better?” he hissed, locking Steve's free hand above his head. “Is this a better vibe for you, Rogers?”

Steve laughed, pressing his book against Bucky in some half-hearted attempt to push him off. “Ahh, oh no…”

“Yeah, I got you now.”

"I didn’t want this…”

“Yeah, you never want it.”

“Get off me,” he said, sanguine with affection.

“Shut up.” Bucky stretched out over him, uncoiling like a worm, pressing his weight against Steve just so. It was enough to make Steve laugh and want him in equal measure.

Bucky studied him, smile dropping slow. He let go of Steve’s wrist, brushing a thumb at his temple instead. “You know you’re getting these lines.”

“Mm. Just fatigue.”

“Oh, is chasing weapons tiring? You should—I dunno—knock it off.”

“We’re not really sleeping,” Steve said, ignoring the jab. “I dunno if we’re just tired of each other, but things have been kinda tense.”

“So it’s not aging, then.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything.”

“My stamina not good enough for you, is that it?”

But Bucky’s smile seemed to fade almost before it blossomed. Steve’s brow folded as he shoved mockery aside. “You’re anxious about… me aging?”

“No,” Bucky said. “I just…”

He trailed off, lips pursing. Steve pulled Bucky’s hand away from his temple and brought it down to his lips, thumb brushing at his palm.

That didn’t quell him either. Bucky pulled his hand away, cupped it evaluatingly at Steve’s bearded jaw. 

“Buck?” Steve asked, quiet.

Bucky shook his head, thumb outlining the bottom of Steve’s lip. “Sometimes I’m not sure how well I know you.”

Steve took his hand again in his. “You know me.”

“I know… things about you. You’ve got this energy. You’re still full of bees. You like sex and eating, usually in succession. I can tell when I haven’t touched you enough because you won’t quit sighing about it.” Steve smiled at that, running his hands over the meat of Bucky’s legs. “But it’s—details I don’t… I don’t know what you eat when you’re not here, or how often. Don’t really know what you’re like in combat anymore.”

“We can spar—”

“No, it's not that. I’m…” Bucky glanced toward the door—a nervous gesture, as though he was looking for the encroaching wolf. “I’m wondering…”

Then he looked at Steve sternly, slipping away from under his hands. “I guess we are talking,” Bucky decided, hitching a finger in the sheet over Steve’s hips. “Asshole.”

Steve smiled and sat up, settling beside Bucky where he’d leaned against the wall. Draping a hand over his knee, sheets set across his lower half, Steve watched as Bucky stared out into the roundhouse.

“You,” Bucky said, but then stopped, eyes closing. His hand slipped down to brush a knuckle at Steve's leg, made smooth by the cotton sheet. Steve wished Bucky would look at him. “What are you fighting for?” Bucky asked.

“You know what we're fighting for. We’re tracking these weapons—”

“I mean, yes, but—why?”

“What do you mean? For a safer world.”

“Killing me would’ve made a safer world.”

Steve stared, then leaned forward to catch Bucky’s eye. “It would have made a worse one,” he said loudly.

“So are you making a _better_ world, or a safer one?”

“Buck—” He reached a hand to Bucky’s chin, but Bucky ducked away. “What is this? What's going on?”

“You asked me why I pulled you from the river, all those months ago. Jesus, last year.” When Bucky finally looked at him, Steve saw the rawness in him. “You wanna know the truth? I did it because it didn’t cost me anything. I had to bail from the helicarrier as it was. All I did was pick you up along the way.”

“That’s not what I was asking. You know it wasn’t.”

“But you.” Bucky landed a finger in Steve’s chest, ignoring him. “Why did you pull that beam off me, huh? That cost you a hell of a lot more.”

“No it didn’t.”

“Yes, it did.”

“And you know why.”

“I don’t. That's why I'm asking.”

“Yeah, you know, Bucky. You just don’t want to say it.”

“You don’t want to say it,” Bucky countered, “because then you’d have to admit—”

“Sounds like you know me just fine.”

“You could have gotten clear. What I want to know—”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not trying to fight, Steve, I’m making a point. You entered the war even though it was so to your detriment that you had to get experimented on to make it happen. You pulled me out of the depths of a Hydra POW camp on a suicide run. You _stayed behind_ on an exploding ship to make sure I didn’t go down with it, and then you stood there and took it while I beat you within an inch of your life. And what I want to know—”

“Is this part of your remembering thing? Because—”

“All that’s in figments and that’s all I want it to be. This is about knowing—” Bucky broke off, fingers clenching into a fist. “It’s about understanding why you do things,” he went on, calmer. “About knowing you.” He looked at Steve, his eyes deep, endless wells. “I don’t have a better reason.”

Steve held his eye until Bucky looked away. They _were_ fighting and neither one of them wanted to be. They took a minute; sighed in mutual frustration. Steve reached to entwine their fingers when the room had settled down. “You know when the whole Accords thing was going down,” he said quietly, “I don’t even remember the specific reason—but me and Stark were having this conversation. More or less the same one. Why I do... anything. And I had to tell him that I can’t... turn away. I see something that doesn't sit right, it's my duty to intervene, to do something about it." 

"Why? Why you? Why do you always think it has to be you?" 

"Who else is gonna do it? Who would've pulled you out of that POW camp, who would've taken the beam off you, who'd have given you a _chance_? People who have the option to turn away... I envy them. Sometimes I pity them. That they can just turn their backs and go home..." Steve shook his head. "I can't know their inner lives, but I know they don't resemble mine. You always saw the option of going home, you used to tell me to do it all the time, and I tried explaining to you then what I'm trying to say now: I can’t. I can't fathom a world where there's something I can do and I just _go home_. It would ruin me, tear me up, knowing I chose to do nothing. I would think about that decision for the rest of my life and be haunted. Already the times when I could’ve done more...”

“What more could you do?” Bucky rasped. “You’re a fugitive, for fuck’s sake. The things you’ve given up for the cause could fill a book.”

“That’s not the… It's not about sacrifice, not about trade. It's about what I can give. The _choice_ to hold that back... it's immoral, it's _wrong_. If I walked away from something just because it might save me some grief, it’d come back around and bite me double. I’d be constantly thinking about how things could’ve gone different if only I’d tried.”

Bucky slipped his hand from under Steve's and pressed it hard to his mouth. “The way you push so fuckin hard that you—” he paused, wet his lips—"put your neck on the line for an uncaring cause. It's like you've faced death a couple times and now you think that’s part of the bargain.”

“No bargain.”

“I'll say.”

“I'm saying bargain's not part of it." The look on Bucky's face told Steve what was coming. "Look—you ask me what I'm thinking and won't listen when I tell you. It was about serving—”

“You thought you were better off dead than helpless before you ever served," Bucky said. "And I guess I know you after all—” his voice went ragged, fraying like an old rope—“because I know as good as you that you never outgrew it.”

Bucky'd told half a truth, rooted enough in reality to be tough to push against. But the gentle shake in Bucky's arm told Steve to shut up and let it be. He fought the urge to reach out a hand, then did it anyway—took Bucky's hand away from his mouth, entwining their fingers again. Made Bucky vulnerable, brought him company in it. 

Bucky lifted Steve’s hand, brought it to his lips. “Just promise me,” he said, clearing his throat, “the next time you’re up against it, that you’ll think about it before throwing yourself on the pyre. Think about the cost. Just think, Rogers. It's not on you to—" A twang in his voice. "It's not _on you._ ”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve promised.

“Don’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not,” said Steve. He scooted forward to pull Bucky in for a slow, careful kiss—no heat in it, lush with only love. “I promise, Bucky. I'll think about it.”

  


  


  


  


The Helgentarran sun slips into eclipse the closer to Vormir they get. 

“A tempering measure,” Nebula explains, when Steve’s neck cranes to watch the disappearing light. “It’s gone out of hand, if Vormir is abandoned.”

“Tempering?” 

“Likely it or another planet in the system grew too hot. Its residents attempted to block its heat, only to block out most light as well.”

“I thought you said Vormir was toxic.”

“I said the planet that held the Soul Stone was toxic. Kree legends speak of the Vorms, a waterbound species on a clouded world. The sun burned up the clouds, the clouds no longer shielded the sea; I assume the Vorms went extinct from the warming planet. Vormir was toxic to them; this alone fills the legend. Legends are full of such tricks of logic.”

Vormir appears purple from space. Clouds form unnaturally in straight lines across its surface, bunching around an offshoot of purple light he doesn’t comprehend. 

“Does that mean the planet’s toxic to us?” Steve asks, peering at the ship’s impenetrable environmentals. He expects Nebula to snap at him, to tell him they are but mortal beings. He nurses a speech on his tongue about how he didn’t fly across the universe just to turn around with it in eye’s view. 

But Nebula stares at the displays, wordless as she flies them closer to the planet.

“What are you thinking?” Steve asks.

“The planet does not look impenetrable.”

The closer they draw, the more of the planet’s surface seems to open up. “Does that mean you’ll take us down?”

Nebula doesn’t answer, except to descend them onto Vormir. The ship is still chirping about imminent destruction when it lands unscathed. 

“Guess that settles that,” Steve mutters, unbuckling from the passenger seat.

“It settles nothing.” Nebula gets to her feet. “From appearances, we stand to be vaporized the second we set foot outdoors.”

“‘We’? You’re coming with me?”

Nebula grabs a weapons belt from the console in silence. Steve gets the impression she’d planned to accompany him all along. “You might’ve told me,” he mutters.

“You might’ve assumed.”

He had worn the Cap suit, for lack of a better option. Unsure of what to expect in space, street clothes had seemed insufficient—not that this is bound to help him much. He’s never seen Nebula out of her armour. It seemed equivalent to at least put on kevlar.

The gauntlet, too big to wear and as yet without a case, sat locked up in storage through the flight. To open the locker and see it there seems to surprise him in some way. He slips the glove on his hand, but has to hold it there; relaxing his hand is not an option. It’s far too big, dwarfing his arm. Curling his fingers stops it sliding to the floor—

The door to the ship hisses closed behind him.

Steve moves swiftly to the door in alarm, hands still impotently occupied with the gauntlet. “Nebula?” he says.

The door locks audibly. Nebula stands in the airlock, facing away. The ship says something in a language Steve doesn’t understand; air is let into the chamber, then the airlock opens onto Vormir. 

Steve's trapped inside. Nebula plans to climb the mountain alone. He should've vetted her better, should've listened to Rocket—he curls his fingers in the gauntlet and moves his free hand along the seam of the door, desperate to find purchase. Steve searches for a button, anything that might let him through. “Nebula!”

Nebula ignores him, stepping forward onto the planet. Steve peers through the panel window, taking in a landscape of sifting sand. Nothing here is purple, except the sky. Water sits in pools in front of the dune; sand leads into a darkened, shadowed landscape. Jagged rocks foreshadow a hulking mountain in the middle distance.

Why isn't there a way to open the damn door? Had Nebula uninstalled the handle, planned for this the whole way? 

Outside, Nebula takes a steady breath of air. Moves her cybernetic arm in front of her, as though testing it for functionality. “Open airlock,” he says, but the computer doesn’t seem to respond to verbal commands—at least, not ones in English. “Open door,” he says again anyway, getting nothing in turn. The glass must be impenetrable, but Steve could try punching it all the same. He turns to look for a crowbar, something he can use—

The door slides open. 

Steve turns. “The atmosphere appears non-toxic,” Nebula says neutrally, stepping back in as the pressure resolves. “All readings suggest otherwise. I could not say what sort of deceptive measure has been cast—”

“What was that about?” Steve snaps.

Nebula assesses him. “If you are of the stones, it will not do for you to die on a hostile planet. I was testing the atmosphere for habitability.”

That surprises Steve. “I don’t need protection.”

“If we mean to undo this, your protection is a priority.” Nebula pulls a staff out of seemingly nowhere. She has more tricks than Steve knows about. Nebula holds it out to him, gesturing that he take it. The weapons belt, firm at her hip, holds a pistol. She could outmatch him in a second, but the staff is better than nothing. 

“Are you trained?” Nebula asks as Steve takes it from her. 

“Yeah. I’m trained.”

Nebula nods them out toward the planet's surface. “Tell me if you begin to feel faint. It is possible my implants are preserving me better than they would you, but the presence of water on the planet suggests…” But she disembarks without finishing her thought, shoulders thrown back as though challenging the planet to cross her.

The wind is slight as they set off across one of Vormir’s rolling dunes. Evidence of stronger gales sit etched into the serpentine patterns scattered over sand. Steve wonders what was once here—what kinds of trees, whether it was lush with grass, green or blue or some other colour. Boulders sit around the mountain in front of them—a volcano, if Steve had to guess—arranged oddly, as though crashed there by the purposeful tides of an ancient sea.

“What makes you think it’s up there?” Steve asks Nebula, though what 'it' precisely is, Steve can't begin to fathom. It’s clear she’s headed toward the mountain, taking the path in an arc, looking for a path up the slope. Such an easy approach seems like wishful thinking for such an impenetrable place. His senses are on edge, straining to comprehend a deep, unnatural silence. 

“A hunch,” Nebula says.

“A _hunch_?”

“I am leading you to the Soul Stone. You would do well to ask fewer questions.”

It’s not like Steve has any better ideas. Now that he’s here—now that the planet doesn’t seem inclined to kill him—it’s hard to fathom how they could possibly comb the planet for an object they know so little about. How did Nebula know where to land? Where to start looking, to come to these mountains?

Steve watches her walking ahead, her cybernetic arm held aloft as though poised. “Do you know more than you’re letting on?” he asks.

Nebula tilts her head halfway—not quite looking behind her, but enough of an incline to convey a sense of threat. “It seems probable.”

Steve keeps a tight grip on the staff she gave him. “Have you been here before?”

“No.”

“You seem to know the planet.”

“I know _of_ the planet. The information security of the Kree is…” Her lip curls in disdain. “Lacking.”

“You— _hacked_ the Kree?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

"I wouldn't think of it.”

Nebula grunts. “The Captain of America is a poor spy.”

He smiles, if faintly. “It’s been said.”

The air is crisp and still up the mountain. There’s something wrong with the planet. Clouds track across the horizon in low strips, as though drawn magnetically down—inexplicable, yet an unshakeable impression. The sky sits otherwise clear, the searing ring of the eclipsed sun burning high, looking down like an eerie eye.

“I searched for Gamora,” Nebula finally says. “A trace of her DNA off the edge of this cliff, which holds two skyward pillars. Vormir was eighty percent water, its species water-dwelling. It had no terrestrial architecture—and yet there is some.”

“Something else built it.”

“It is likely.” 

Steve realizes he’s on his guard not from Nebula anymore, but from the atmosphere’s fragility. Water lines the dune they’re traversing on either side—barely deeper than a mixing bowl; a swamplike pool. Far from a sea. He registers a feeling of wrongness in the air he just can’t shake. It's like the planet shouldn’t be here—like this dune shouldn’t, like nothing should. These snaking parallel lines of land don’t make any sense. Something is holding the planet together in a way science can’t explain.

  


  


  


  


Nebula’s instincts lead her well; a pathway, slick with shale but still traversable, makes itself apparent on the sun-facing side of the mountain. The climb is arduous. Steve doesn’t ask why Nebula hadn’t landed the ship higher up on the mountain’s slope; he wouldn’t have tried it himself. 

There’s something strange and contradictory about the mountain, as there was about the sand: a light dusting of snow covers the rocks the higher up, but Steve would swear it isn’t cold enough for it. The sun seems to hang in the same place in the sky, unmoving from where it was when they’d landed.

Does this planet still experience days? Is it stuck here, held in place by the same magic that keep the sand and water along their parallel tracks? Steve doesn’t ask. Neither one of them talks. Nebula’s stayed tense the whole climb, but seems unaffected by the difficulty of the terrain. From time to time, her hand curls into a fist and flexes, harboring an implacable fury.

She only stops when they reach a tunnel: oddly located, carved into stone.

Steve almost runs into her. Nebula doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Do you feel it?” she asks.

“Feel what?”

But then he does feel it—a liquid dread, slipping hot and fast through him.

He braces the staff. “What is it?”

“Wrongness. We are meant to be deterred.” She looks at him. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Neither am I.”

Steve grinds his teeth, looking through the archway. “I’m gonna ask you again why you’re here.”

“Keep a close handle on your gauntlet,” Nebula says only. “It will not do to have it reclaimed.”

“Nebula,” Steve says—but before he can reach a hand to stop her, she takes a step forward.

In the arch of the stone tunnel, a figure materializes—and Steve forgets about stopping her altogether.

  



	10. Recurring Costs

  


The staff clatters against stone. 

Steve grips his hands in the front of Schmidt’s cloak—or he tries. Fingers close over air. Steve steps right through him and, driven by the momentum of his fury, splays his hands against the wall.

“Captain,” Nebula warns, but Steve is past caring, rage pushing him on. He turns, lips pulling back. “ _You_ ,” he growls, stepping forward again. His blood is boiling, vision turned black; Schmidt is speaking, but Steve doesn’t hear a word he says. “ _You did this_ —” 

He swings a fist; it doesn’t connect; he’d known that it wouldn’t. He does it again. Pulling back, Steve tries to grab at him, the clumsy fingers of the gauntlet grasping nothing, only for Nebula to force him back with a hand at his chest. 

“Enough,” she hisses in his face. Steve tries to throw her off, but a mechanical whir in her arm keeps him firmly held down.

“Let me go,” Steve bites. Schmidt is still floating there— _floating_ —watching them struggle with hateful patience. Steve imagines breaking his face open with his knuckles, tearing meat from bone—divining from him some flesh resolution. But he knows from the medusean tails of Schmidt’s cloak disappearing into ether that that’s not the bargain he’s been offered.

“He did this,” Steve tells her, voice shaking. He spits with every furious word. “He did this.”

“Control yourself.”

“He did this. He’s behind it, he set _all_ this in motion. He killed Bucky, killed _millions_. I took the serum because of him, he has the Tesseract—”

Nebula’s grip turns sharp again. “He cannot.”

“Nebula,” says Schmidt, “is correct.”

“Shut up,” Steve spits. Schmidt’s voice echoes oddly in the rockface around them—as though he's between dimensions, not really there, voice bouncing between dimensional walls on its way there. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

“Perhaps,” Schmidt agrees.

“He possessed the Tesseract,” Nebula clarifies—“ _before._ ”

“During the war," Steve confirms. "Seventy years ago. He handled it, made weapons from it. It’s no coincidence he’s here; it's no fucking _coincidence_. Are you manifesting just for me?” Steve asks him, finally wrenching Nebula’s hand off his chest. “Am I projecting you, is this image for me?”

“This station is my curse,” Schmidt says. “A lifetime ago, I too sought the stones. I even held one in my hand. But it cast me out, banished me here, guiding others to a treasure I cannot possess.”

“You’re telling me a _stone_ decided—”

“At the command of another.”

Steve blinks. “Another stone?”

“Another wielder.”

Steve can barely comprehend what he’s hearing. “Someone told the Tesseract to station you here.”

“A being who wielded the Tesseract before it came into my possession aimed to shape the course of history, to predestine my fate,” says Schmidt.

“Are you telling me someone put you here… knowingly?”

“He is an arbiter of lies,” Nebula hisses.

“I cannot lie,” Schmidt replies. “I am condemned to speak the truth.”

“He tried to use the Tesseract to… become more than human," Steve tells Nebula, "to dominate the world. He was consumed by its energy in front of my eyes—or so I thought. This is... I don't know what it is. An echo, a taunt?”

“A test,” says Nebula, and Steve sets his jaw against a fresh wave of fury.

“Something.”

Nebula turns to face Schmidt at Steve’s side. It's a relief to have the united front. 

“You know me,” Nebula says.

“It is my curse to know all who journey here,” Schmidt replies.

“My sister,” she asks. “Thanos.”

“Many have come. Few are prepared to pay the price.” Schmidt’s eyes—a sickly yellow, as inhuman as the rest of him—flit to Steve as he says it. 

The bile of white rage rises in him again. “But Thanos paid it,” Steve says, swallowing it down.

“As you well know.”

“What imperative,” Steve asks, voice shaking, “do you follow that you’d willingly hand—” But he stops himself, coughing in nauseated realization. “You know what? Of course you would. You are the perfect man for this job.” He turns away, rubbing a hand at his mouth. “I knew it’d be bad, but…”

“I tried to warn you,” Nebula says.

“Yeah, you did.”

“You have come for the Soul Stone,” Schmidt says.

Steve expects Nebula’s agreement, but—

“I have come for Gamora.” 

Steve turns, abrupt. 

Schmidt offers a thin and joyless smile. “I cannot undo what has been done.”

“I offer myself in her stead." Steve steps level as Nebula says it, frowning hard, but she pays him no attention. “My own survival is more greatly valued to me—”

“Your offer betrays the falsity of the premise.”

“I have nothing more to exchange for her life.”

“I do not deal in life and death.”

It’s Steve who has to hold Nebula back now, hand at her shoulder. “Nebula.”

But blades have suddenly appeared in her hands. “Lies,” Nebula hisses. “You are the one who offers the bargain.”

“I cannot lie," says Schmidt. "I provide options, nothing more. I act not; the one who would wield delivers the choice.”

“You took her.”

“I did nothing. Thanos made his choice, committed the act. I would have done nothing even if I could, but I cannot. I hold no form; there is no action I can take.”

At first, Nebula doesn’t move. “And if I ran between those gates?” she barks. “What would happen?”

“You would die.”

“And Gamora would live?”

“I do not deal in life and death,” Schmidt repeats. “What’s done is done. That, too, would be an action, a choice. You would die. I perform no action.”

A moment passes; then, slowly, the blades in Nebula's hands withdraw. “I aimed only to make sure,” she says quietly. 

Steve can’t fathom her line of questioning or read her tone. He also can't fathom why she’s given up. The three of them stand under the stone archway, Steve and Nebula simmering with rage, Schmidt’s tails moving in an unfelt wind, and wait. 

"You have come with a purpose," Schmidt reminds them. 

Steve's breath quivers out of his nose. “How do I get the Soul Stone?” he asks against bile.

Schmidt doesn’t answer right away. He examines Steve through narrowed eyes. “The stone extracts a terrible price,” he says at last. “To ensure that whoever possesses it understands its power, the stone demands a sacrifice.”

Steve laughs, a hollow sound. Nausea churns violently in his gut. “I’m all tapped out,” he says weakly. “You took everything the first time. You and Thanos, a couple of—”

“Captain,” Nebula warns.

“My home.” Steve’s voice is shaking again, fist squeaking with tension. “My life, my love, my mortality—all gone, taken from me because _you_ —”

“I can take no action.” 

“Your megalomania,” Steve goes on, voice ripping into furious registers, "your reckless ambition have already cost—and for you to stand there and tell me it’s not _enough_ —”

“A soul for a soul. That is the bargain.”

“Fuck you,” Steve yells, “and fuck your bargain! Go to hell where you belong. To take everything and claim—" 

"I have not taken _everything._ " 

The word resonates more deeply than it should. Against his will, Steve’s mind flashes to Natasha—to the way she’d squeezed his hand in casual goodbye before he’d stepped onto Nebula’s ship. 

Nebula has to hold him back when Steve lunges again.

"If you touch her," Steve whispers, throat bricking with rage. "You come anywhere near—" 

“Enough,” she hisses, pushing him back the way they came. “We are not prepared. We should leave.”

Steve wrenches Nebula’s hand free, but she’s already pushed him back far enough that Schmidt's form has disappeared. Steve looks wildly around, but Nebula's strong; he's not about to fight her, no matter how mad he gets. “We came here to—”

“Recognize defeat,” Nebula says firmly. “The sacrifice is physical. He is bound, but incorporeal, can extract nothing himself. The test is what _you_ are prepared to give in exchange for the stone. He has shown you the price. If you are not willing to give—”

“I have already _given_ —”

“—then we are here for nothing." Nebula nods in Schmidt's direction. “Perhaps you were to blinded to notice, but the keeper is blocking a pair of gates. There is a threshold, a physical ritual. Listen to me carefully: the stone is not given in exchange for a promise. It is given for _blood_.”

That shuts Steve up in a hurry. He keeps seething, but at least he can listen.

“When you are ready to exchange a living being for the stone,” Nebula says—“and not just any being; I would not do, nor will you try—”

“I won’t.”

“You would,” she counters, “under the right conditions, as would I try with you; I see that now. Perhaps you are capable of performing the ritual." Steve registers offense pinging deep in his brain, but Nebula talks over him when he opens his mouth. "If and when you are prepared to complete the blood ritual the stone requires, then we may return. But in the meanwhile—”

“Why blood?” Steve asks. His tone is firm, but he feels plaintive. “Why does it have to be _blood_?”

“That is the way.”

“But _why_?”

“For the last time,” Nebula hisses—"this is not a matter of philosophy. There are rules of the universe that we are not meant to understand. Perhaps you’ve noticed: this planet is wrong. Physics no longer apply. That means it is being held intact by a celestial magic—the same one that requires the blood of a beloved to manifest the stone. There is no reason for it; it simply is. A being has decreed it so. They have put safeguards in place to force it into being. 

“The keeper says he cannot lie," Nebula goes on. "I do not believe he does. I have told you from the start this ritual requires an exchange, and you elected not to believe me. Believe me now, Captain. You have heard it from a being you believed to be dead, who you thought consumed by the very power you seek to wield. I cannot tell you why, but this is simply the way of things. You may throw someone you love between those gates to procure the Soul Stone, or you can proceed without it.”

“Then I proceed without it."

“Then we leave.”

Nebula sets down the mountain path. Steve refuses to move. He watches the shale shifting under her feet until she rounds the corner out of sight.

He looks to where Schmidt stood. There is no voice, no sign of him, no rippling of his cloak; no evidence of his having been there at all. The staff lies where Steve dropped it on the ground. If he steps close enough, he thinks Schmidt might reappear—condemned to the doorway, doomed to meet each person who attempts to reach the gates. It’s tempting to summon him again, to try to extract the pound of flesh he’s owed. 

But as Steve stoops to collect the staff, he finds his feet are unwilling to take him closer. He stops just short of the doorway, peering through it at the pair of pillars standing high in the distance. 

He stares down his own cowardice for hard, lasting minutes. When nothing moves—when no signs of life manifest to push him closer or away—Steve is forced to face the fact that he is not in charge. He is not in control. He is a pawn doing the bidding of the higher powers. 

He can walk away.

 _Promise me you'll think about it before throwing yourself on the pyre._

Just to think about Bucky is all it takes to put the fight back in Steve's heart. 

Pawn or not, he turns to follow Nebula down the rocky slope .

  


  


  


  


### December, 2017

Bucky’s voice was low and steady in unhesitant Xhosa, and Steve basked in bed awhile just to listen. He couldn’t see him; Bucky was outside, a little away, still close enough to the door to hear. The curtain hung heavy in the threshold, and it was humid that day; hotter than usual. Steve felt the sweat clinging to his body. Bucky had become a little less subdued in recent months; he bathed more often with Steve in the room, spoke more without Steve asking. Let Steve into his inner life a ways. 

Even so, Bucky never talked _this_ much. Hearing him speak gently, having learned the language in only a year, put a warmth in Steve’s heart that would fuel him awhile.

Steve moved slowly, dressing silently as he could. Bucky probably knew Steve was there; he always did. But if Steve stayed quiet, maybe he’d be allowed to witness Bucky in comfort a little longer.

Bucky did slow down as Steve crept around the roundhouse, but Steve didn’t think it had to do with him. Bucky said a few short words, and a few metal clicks followed—then erupted a whispered chorus of awe.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, subdued. Just to hear the smile in his voice pulled the strings of Steve’s heart. He leaned his head against the inside wall beside the door to steady himself. There was a small gasp amid the sound of shifting slats and Bucky gasped, too, short and artificial.

He muttered a few more words Steve didn’t understand, but finished with—“ _Wolf_?” and Steve smiled, poised one hand at the fabric and grasped. He gave a subdued growl, and the result was instantaneous: four screaming voices streaked into the town, dirt kicking under the door.

Bucky’s laughter finally coaxed Steve outside as the kids squealed all the way to the village. He stood slowly, wrapping up his prosthetic’s stump. He kept his body turned from Steve until it was out of sight. He was still shy about that; kept a sock over it most of the time. 

“Kids think it’s cool,” Bucky said quietly, hitching the fabric over his shoulder. “Too young to know better.”

Steve sidled up close to him, slipping a hand around his waist. He wanted to remember this, to taste the smile on Bucky’s face before it faded. “You’re good with them.” 

Bucky looked at him hard, shaking his head. “No.”

“No?”

“Don’t do that.” Bucky’s voice was soft, halfway a whisper, the way it got when he was mocking him. “I’m having a nice morning.” 

"I am too." 

"Don't ruin it with talk."

“No talking,” Steve agreed.

Bucky kissed him, once, with supple lips, and gave him a circumspect look. Then he slipped out of Steve’s grip and went inside. “Eggs?”

“Mm.” Steve tied the curtain to one side, letting in the light. He grabbed his sketchbook and sat with his legs propped up in the door, not ruining the morning with talk. He sketched the lakeside as Bucky cooked. Bucky delivered breakfast to him there—a pair of eggs on bread that he’d made—and leaned his back down against the arch of the door until he sat down.

Steve tried not to watch him. The truth of it was that the warmth from hearing his rumbling voice hadn’t left Steve's chest. Steve was so happy then; he was so happy for a handful of days a few months apart, when they could make this work. He wanted to sink into contentment like a bath, enjoy it for as long as he could.

Bucky looked at him with stark appraisal, sorrow flashing on his face and disappearing again. It was a strange look; it didn't fit the morning at all.

Steve frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky stared at him a second, then set down his food aside. “We’re not retiring,” he said on a sigh.

"Okay." Steve set his plate too. “Why?”

“It’s not in you.” Bucky seemed not to like his own answer; frowned, reconsidering. “It’s not in _me_. You know I used to want a family—”

Steve had known it all too well. It was a wedge between them a hundred times before the war—that Bucky wanted something Steve didn't have to give.

“You don’t still?” Steve asked.

“No,” Bucky said. “It... I dunno, it fulfilled me, having people depend on… me.” A shadow crossed over his face, like he'd never been worthy; like he'd thought that he'd failed them, that his more recent past had somehow turned it to coal. "As the girls got older, things changed, they needed me less... thinking about family was one of those things that kept me going, you know? Baby on my chest, Sundays in the park with a kid on my shoulders. I dunno.” He looked at Steve. “But that was then.”

Steve's heart was in his throat. He didn't know why.

“Look—don’t get the wrong idea," Bucky went on. "Every time I thought about having a kid, I couldn’t think of who with for the longest time. You get married, right, that’s how those things used to work. That’s why I always thought I was gonna; kept waving it in your face like I didn’t know it hurt you every time." Bucky was looking at him hard, conveying the truth with his gaze, like his words weren't enough. "I was trying to get to the bottom of it, Steve. Of what I really wanted.”

Steve’s free hand wrapped around Bucky’s calf, the way it tended to these days—creature comfort for them both. This time, in intervention. This was one of those parts of the past that was best left buried, that they usually avoided: the list of regrets from before they knew better. 

Steve didn’t want to hear it, except that he wanted to hear every word. It was a dangerous offering; it meant more to Bucky than Steve understood. Enough that he felt compelled to say it, that he wouldn't even hide from it. That he looked Steve dead in the face to be sure he was heard.

But it was just Bucky—Bucky talking, offering something honest he wanted to give. Steve could no more have turned that away than he could have walked out the door.

I was trying to evolve the idea," Bucky says, "keep it relevant. I only talked about marriage at you because I wanted the family so fucking bad. But every time I thought about chubby little hands wrapped around my fingers, I kept thinking about who I’d be doing it with, what my…” His eyelids flickered. “What my wife would be like. Only all I could ever see was my sisters, there in the evenings to give me a hand, or else—" his gaze finally fell—"you lying there, holding a sketchbook, holding that kid’s hand with me. Every time I tried to think of being married, I thought of steering you out of another dumb alleyway. It took me years to figure out what all that meant. But I did eventually.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Steve asked, voice sticking.

“Because I want you to understand I’m not trying to hurt you when I say it’s not in the cards.” He shrugged, like it might have hurt _him_. “I would’ve gone the whole way with you. We lived in the wrong time, but if we hadn’t… I would have done it.” He looked up. “It's just not what motivates me anymore. Retirement isn’t. I don’t want you to look at me showing a bunch of kids something they’ll think is cool during one of your tri-annual visits and get the wrong idea.”

In all the things Bucky had said, it was the last one that furrowed Steve's brow. “Tri-annual visits…? Those aren’t my terms, Buck.”

Bucky winced. “That’s not what I meant.”

It stuck in Steve anyway. “Is this… somehow about my not being here very much?”

“Are you hearing what I’m saying? The ship has sailed.”

“I’m hearing a lot of things. We've gone from ‘stop talking about retirement’ and ‘no kids in the cards’ to making passive-aggressive remarks about how often I’m available.”

“For God’s sake. I misspoke.”

“I don’t think you did. You started in on this whole thing implying that the reason we’re not gonna retire is because it’s not in _me_ to do it.”

“And then I revised—”

“I think you do have it in you.” Steve was picking up speed. “I think you’re proving you do just being here. Is it that you think… _I’m_ not committed?”

Bucky tilted his head, neck bared in exasperation. “Is this really that hard a concept to stomach that you have to turn this around on me?”

“Why don’t you think we’re gonna retire someday?”

“We talked about this, Steve, months ago. The nature of the fight, how it’s not always about what we want. Sometimes we do what we have to, the way you and Wilson and Romanoff are doing now. That’s _why_ you’re not always here, why you’d be rottingly miserable even if you were. Our work’s not done. _No_ one knows that better than you. Sitting here pretending like you wouldn’t be saying the same thing if I hadn’t just hurt your feelings—”

“That’s what’s getting me,” Steve cut in. “You saying our work will never be done like it’s a certainty. I don’t care about kids, Bucky. You’re saying you don’t want them? Fine, I don't care about that. But discarding _retirement_ like it’ll never happen…” He shook his head. “I’m not about to let go of the hope that someday, we’ll build what we’re due. What you just told me about wanting you and me to be _real_ , to be something we were supposed to have a shot at building… that’s all that look on my face means, when I look at you. After all the world took from us, you and me getting the chance to retire from war together is what we’re _owed_. And I won’t let go of that idea, of fighting for that idea, for anything short of you saying you’re getting rid of me. You want me to talk about what motivates _me_?”

“No,” Bucky said, hoarse. “I can’t bear that weight, Steve.” 

Steve blinked himself to silence. Bucky’s eyes were honest; not hiding anything. 

“Is that what this is about?” Steve asked. “My hopes… feeling too high?”

Bucky shook his head, looking aside. “We risk our lives for the cause, you and me. That’s who we are now, that’s all I was trying to say. It’s all I’ve _been_ trying to say.” 

Suddenly Steve flashed back to their conversation three days ago. 

_It’s about knowing you. Understanding why you do things._

Steve had somehow convinced him he’d pick the fight over Bucky.

“You think I’m going to leave you," he rasped.

“I think,” Bucky countered, a little fast, but then he caught his tongue and let the words hang in the door. “I think I’m the same as you,” he redirected. “In enough respects to matter. That’s a lethal combination between you and me, and I think it’d be easier if we just accepted our lives, our jobs, for what they are.”

But Steve wasn’t prepared to do that. He scooted forward, leaning his legs around the house’s outer wall, just to be able to look Bucky closer in the eye. “I think that it would do a lot for our respective _motivations_ ,” he muttered, lifting Bucky’s fingers to his lips, “if we thought there might be something good waiting for us on the other side of… whatever this is.”

“You thought that in 1944.”

“And it drove you crazy, I know. But—” He nodded toward the lake. “We’re here now. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Bucky gave him a withering look, like the silver lining looked a little thin from where he was sitting.

“We never would have guessed we'd be here then,” Steve went on. “I didn’t abandon hope—”

“And look how far it got you.”

“And I won’t abandon it now,” Steve shot back. “I won’t stop hoping there’s a happy ending at the end of all this; sorry. I don’t want to know what it’s like trying to fight without the thought of you waiting on the other side.”

  


  


  


But loss chases him. 

It’s chased him for years. Schmidt took his life from him the first time, and now Thanos has taken what he’d managed to get back. It’s all Steve can think about, the only thing left in his mind—how his hope of pushing through to something better keeps getting dashed by his so-called values, his moralistic integrity. By the goddamn _job_.

  


  


  


“It hurt you,” Bucky’d said. “To believe in a future, to…” He trailed off, eyes casting toward the lake. “To have that optimism taken...”

“You’re trying to save me from disappointment.”

“I’m trying to save you from heartbreak,” Bucky said plainly.

Steve shook his head and brushed the hair away from Bucky’s face. “Don’t.”

“ _Don’t?_ ”

“Save your breath. You’re not talking me out of anything. I’m not trying to put anything on you—”

“It’s—Steve, I don’t know if I can live up to your expectations.”

“What expectations? I’m not gonna force anything on you. There’s no time limit; I don’t need us to retire tomorrow or next year. I just need ‘eventually’ to stay in the cards.”

Bucky searched his face a long time. “What if something happens before ‘eventually’ comes?”

  


  


  


  


Steve can’t handle the debrief. A rough day of travel with nothing to show and he’s at the end of his tether, unfit to be seen. He sets the empty gauntlet down on the console and ignores the voices calling him back, setting out into the corridor without looking at a soul. 

Running implies panic. Steve can’t afford panic. He’s making a decision to step away, to collect himself, to hit something that probably won’t make his hands bleed. He walks down the hall. He’d made the same decision to step back after Peggy died, after Bucky’d died the first time and shown up again—to step away. To collect himself. Extenuating circumstances. He just needs a minute.

Steps fall behind him. Steve only needs to assess the weight of the strides to know it’s Natasha.

“Steve,” she says. Her voice shouldn’t carry like that.

“Just give me a minute.”

“Steve,” she says, firmer. 

For some reason, it’s a dagger to the heart. “ _What_?” he shouts back, spinning on his heels.

Natasha stands at the hallway’s other end, breathing thin. “You can leave,” she says. “But you can’t disappear.”

Steve looks at her across the long stretch of hallway. One side of the corridor opens to windows, dark in the night.

“I didn’t know,” she says, “if you were coming back, when you shot off into space. It’d be nice if you—”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Steve says wearily. He thinks of the squeeze of Natasha’s hand just before he’d boarded the ship; of that image with Schmidt. How he'd made Steve think it. “I just… have to hit something.”

“Okay,” she says quietly.

Steve doesn’t move. He’s lost momentum now. Looking at Natasha seems to root him down.

Natasha doesn’t turn away. Instead, she pushes down the hall until she’s standing in front of him, looking at him like she sees where he is. He almost can’t bear it. Six years fighting back-to-back and she’s demanded little honesty, though she somehow commands it. 

He's too raw; it's too much. He can't show her he's afraid.

“I don’t know what happened out there,” Natasha begins.

“I can't do this now.”

“But if it comes down to a question of them, or me—”

Steve puts a hand over her mouth before he even thinks. 

Natasha doesn’t stop him. For a second they stand, holding gaze, Natasha’s green eyes on his. “I will never do that,” Steve whispers tightly. “Not for anything. Don’t even suggest it.”

When Steve drops his hand, she doesn’t say anything. There’s a hint of that red coming in at her roots. 

That tips him. Steve pulls her into his arms before she can redirect, cheek pressing against the top of her head. “I just need a minute,” he says again, though the words barely make it through; then he slips down the hall, hands tight in white fists, relieved when Natasha doesn't call him back.

  



	11. Wasting Away Again (in Margaritaville)

  


This kind of silence is a condition of the present. It’d taken some getting used to. Steve understands why, technology being what it is, people seek it. During the war, no one was ever quiet. People made noise to make a point of it that they were still alive. In Brooklyn, it’d been much the same. Steve had spent his late teens and early twenties squaring off against silence, assessing it, its benefits and perils, and generally sided on making noise. 

Walking into the lab to find the scientists and engineers working in silence reminds him of the Avengers. A band of overpowered misfits trying their best to make things right. Bruce, Shuri, and Rocket—a scientist, a monarch, and a procyanid engineer—each stand in solitude at their respective consoles, all working toward a common goal.

The tranquility appears somewhat attributable to the fact that Stark is nowhere to be found. He’d been in here when they’d gotten back from Vormir, but must have disappeared to be eccentric in peace. 

Steve’s been gone four days and things are as they were. Just a little less frantic. 

Nearly three weeks since the Cataclysm and everyone else seems to have found their station.

Taking in that perilous silence, the kind that leaves way too much room for thinking, Steve takes a breath and finds gratitude. Whatever else is true—whether they find another way to beat this thing or not—they’re still in here, fighting. Doing their best. _We few_ , as Falsworth always said, _we happy few, we band of brothers_ , pushing forward with every ounce of courage they have. Trying to make things right. Doing whatever they can.

If war feels neverending, Steve has at least been lucky in his company.

“Steve.”

Bruce looks up at him from below, propping his glasses on his head. “How you doing?”

An impossible question. Steve doesn’t try to answer it. “Have you seen Natasha?” he asks instead.

“I thought she was with you.”

“I’ll find her,” he says, turning to leave.

“Have you checked in with Tony?”

Steve turns slowly back around. “Should I?”

“Well…” Bruce winces.

Steve sighs, propping his hands on the console. “I gather I’m not gonna like it.”

“He’s not what I’d call happy.”

“What now?”

“His files came in. Howard’s, from Rhodey.”

“Anything interesting?”

“He thinks you knew about the Tesseract in your system all along.”

Steve hadn't expected that. “Why would he think that?”

“Because Howard said you gave him the idea.”

Steve stares. “Howard…”

“In his journals.” Bruce looks a little uncertain. “If you ask me, it’s not clear what exactly Howard meant, but Tony’s decided it means you said something about putting the Tesseract in the serum. That’s why he was able to re-invent it in the ‘90s, which is why he was transporting it when…”

“When Bucky…” Steve runs a hand over his face. “Alright. Where is he?”

“Shuri put him in another lab—”

“Research and development,” Shuri interjects without looking up. “Where I took you last week. You'll need a shuttle.”

“Do I have clearance?”

"Dora will drive you.” She looks at Steve darkly. “He was annoying me.”

“He does that.” Steve turns to leave again. “Thanks. I’ll track him down.” 

And he means it—but his first order of business is to find Natasha. It doesn’t take long. He finds her curled up in bed when he checks their shared quarters. “Hi,” Steve says when he enters.

Natasha's eyes snap open, though she relaxes at the sight of him. “Feeling better?”

“Marginally,” says Steve. He pulls the door closed behind him. He feels like he should shower, but he kind of wants to take care of this Tony thing first. Hell if he’s going to do it still in uniform. A shower might soothe him after a stubborn conversation anyway. “Hear Stark’s not too happy with me.”

“He’s just confused.”

Steve wonders just how public this meltdown was. “You believe I didn’t know about the Tesseract.”

“No reason to doubt you.”

That's good enough. “What’s this notebook about?”

“You should ask him.” Natasha succumbs to listlessness, sinking deeper into the bed as Steve peels his uniform off. 

He frowns. She was due a breakdown, but her defeat is hard to see. “You gonna be alright another hour?” he asks.

“Peachy keen.”

Steve glances at the clock. It's nearly midnight, but he’d bet bullets Stark’s awake and working anyway. “If I’m not back by one," he says, "investigate the tower perimeter for signs of freshly turned dirt.”

“Awfully cheerful at the prospect of an argument, aren’t we?”

Truth be told, he was. “Can’t fight how God made me.”

“Like that’s stopped you before.”

Steve has to grant her that.

  


  


  


  


Stark’s leaning over the lab’s centre display when Steve walks in. It’s hard to focus on his defeated posture given the impressive construction around the lab: a maze of tubes snakes in an oval-like shape around the centre console, several suspended from the ceiling, others propped from the floor. Lasers point across the room; a burned spot against the wall suggests one of them might not have been initially pointed where it should. 

If he had to guess, Steve would say it’s a particle accelerator. 

Stark’s been busy while he was gone.

At the sound of Steve’s approach, Stark shifts his feet gradually, moving to standing. “There he is.” The gravel in his voice makes him sound like he’s been awake for days. “The man of the hour.”

Steve finds himself fighting for a grip on his calm before he even walks into the lab. He’d initially welcomed the distraction, but in hindsight maybe he should have given this more time. “I come in peace.”

“Yeah,” says Stark. Steve looks around the lab for evidence of booze but— though it’s hardly easy to look around amid all the clutter—he decides the molasses of Stark's words is more likely from lack of sleep. “You always do, don’t you? Come in _peace_.”

Steve pulls out a chair from one of the stations and sits, arms crossing over his chest. Stark will get to the point when he feels like it.

It doesn’t take long. Claiming an old notebook from the stack on the console, Stark turns, licks a finger, flipping deliberately to the desired page. He takes a deep breath, like he’s about to read; but then he frowns and flashes the blank page to Steve. “That's weird. Nothing there.”

Steve rolls his eyes.He knows better than to contribute to these kinds of theatrics. 

“FRIDAY,” says Stark. “Would you turn out the lights?”

“Tony,” Steve interjects, but he's surprised in more than one way. The lights do turn out. Steve wonders what kind of bargain Tony had to strike for Shuri to allow FRIDAY installed.

Right now that’s a secondary question. The bigger concern is the glow in the room that seems to have nothing to do with computers.

“There we go,” says Stark. Only half his face is visible, cast in blue from the singular light of a glowing barbell in the middle of the room. It’s being held up by a thin metal spire—a radioactive particle, or so it seems. This time, when Tony flashes the book, Steve can see thin, slanting writing in a shimmering blue—Howard’s hand, without a doubt. 

“That’s better,” Tony says. “Let’s see here—‘ _March 17, 1990_ ’…”

“You expect me to believe Howard wrote a secret entry in some kind of invisible ink?” Steve says; but he shuts his mouth at Stark’s sharp look. Tony returns his gaze to the page slowly, moving deliberately, as though to strike a mood of apprehension.

“‘ _Keep thinking about what SR said_ ’,” he reads, then looks up again. “I assume that’s you. ‘ _About the Artefact_ ’—I think _that_ means the Tesseract.”

“Couldn’t have guessed.”

“—‘ _and how it can be made to make all kinds of weapons_.’” Tony looks at Steve again. “All. Kinds. Of weapons.”

“Which we knew,” Steve says boredly. “From the war.”

“‘ _Discussed a great source of energy_ ’,” Tony reads on; “‘ _really out of this world, associated with building an initiative of persons_ —’”

At that, Steve frowns. “What? Who said that?”

“According to this? You did.”

“What—Howard figured this out in 1990? Forty-five years after my last conversation with him?”

Stark flashes him the page again. “I’m just reading what it says. ‘ _I suggest we apply this logic broadly..._ ’”

“Give me that,” Steve says, stepping out of his chair, but Stark leans away and shuts the book with a clap before Steve can reach him. 

“FRIDAY, turn on the lights.” He tosses the book aside. In the newly lit room, Steve sees at once that Stark is _furious_. “You knew.”

“About the Tesseract in the serum? I didn’t. How could I—”

“You _told_ him how to make the serum—”

“I still don’t even know for sure that the Tesseract _is_ in the serum! How could I have told—”

Tony grabs the notebook back again and turns to the blank page. “There’s your precious secret, and there—” he turns to the page that came before it, adorned with a labeled diagram of what is unmistakably the Tesseract—“is your precious _Tesseract_. Your life’s blood, apparently the key to all this. My father recorded everything about it—and I mean everything. Schematics, composition, _extractability_ …”

“It—Tony. Is this the information we’ve been—”

“Looking for? Yeah. Turns out you were right; daddy dearest had it all along. Wonder how you knew that.”

“I don’t know the first thing about the Tesseract. Why would I waste time looking for that information _now_ if I already knew it? What makes you think—”

“That’s what I can’t figure out about this. Why’d you’d bother to keep it a secret?”

“I can’t keep secret what I don’t know!”

“But you told him.” Stark raps his knuckles against the book’s front cover. “That the serum had the Tesseract in it. That’s what it says here.”

“I told him the Tesseract was used to make weapons during the war. I’ve been _upfront_ about that. If he figured out—”

“You sat out there,” Tony says over him, pointing angrily down the hall, “the day I got here, and you pretended like it was just theory. Some kind of outlandish _idea_ that you had in your head, that you had to go to Iowa to sift through SHIELD files to sift through.”

“I wasn’t acting! Stark, you’re not thinking clearly. Whatever Howard figured out about the Tesseract and the serum, he figured it out forty-five years after I was already in the ice. I didn’t know about the Tesseract until—”

“Or you’re lying,” Tony interrupts, “and you just don’t want to admit you’re the reason my dad was in that car, transporting that serum—”

“Oh, for the love of…”

“—why the so-called love of your life _killed_ my mom—”

Steve slaps a hand on the nearest surface in frustration. “Goddamnit, Stark, drop the bone. If anyone was responsible for—”

“But the thing is,” Stark says, shaking a finger at him, voice quavering with rage, “that it all comes down to you, doesn’t it? The whole reason we’re living a hell on earth is because of your exposure to this fucking thing in the first place.”

That hits a nerve. Stark knows it does. “Let it go,” Steve says, low.

“So wouldn’t that make you the reason for _all_ this? The reason my parents died; the reason for that alien invasion in 2012; the reason we’re all standing here now, trying to undo the event that killed everyone we love. That’s on you. You ever think of that?”

He’s only thought it a thousand times. All the hours he’s spent not sleeping since seeing Schmidt on Vormir have been spent thinking through the last six years, the last ten, linking the Tesseract to himself and back again: how it was the thing that pulled him into duty; how he and the Tesseract went down in the same ship, wound up frozen together, disappearing for years only to re-emerge at the same time. Thor took it away from him for a few short years—and hadn’t it gotten half of Asgard killed? Who’s to say the borrowed power in Steve’s veins doesn’t have the same destructive effect?

“It’s like it doesn’t exist without you,” Tony says, echoing his train of thought. “It’s like none of this would have even happened if you hadn’t—”

“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? I’m the real enemy here. Fighting me, that’s a good way to spend your time.”

“I think we all deserve a little clarity—” 

“A megalomaniac killed your fiancée. He killed three billion people without so much as a blink. How’s that for clarity? Somehow your response is to make your only hope of getting them back public enemy number one.”

“Look at the evidence—”

“And how, in the scope of your _brilliant_ theory, did I know about this before I even got the serum? I think you’re forgetting that Howard was the one to give this thing to me in the first place. Who’s to say he didn’t know all along, just waited to develop it until the Soviet Union fell? The Tesseract predates me by time immemorial, but somehow this is my fault? How did I know what it’d do to Schmidt, who was becoming a monster while I was stocking shelves in Brooklyn?"

But Stark’s expression has gone slack, eyes out of focus. When he fixes back on Steve, it’s with parted lips and narrowed eyes, like he’s no longer sure what he’s seeing.

“Are you him?” Stark asks. The words barely clear his lips, his throat sticking.

“What?”

“Are you him? Or are you the other one?”

“The other… _what_? Why does everyone think I’m not who I say I am?”

“Who’s everyone?”

“For some reason Fury said the same—”

“When?”

Stark has, at least, calmed down, though the questions snap out of him with brisk urgency. “Some… recording he left for Natasha in the SHIELD vault,” Steve says.

“When was this?” 

“Years ago, I don’t know. Probably when he constructed it.”

“Around Ultron.”

“Probably, yeah.”

Tony nods, not looking at Steve anymore. He’s got one arm leaned out beside him, fingers splayed against the console’s surface, the other balled against his hip. His eyes flit over nothing in the air as he chews on his tongue, thinking through some calculation Steve can’t see.

“Did you cause… this?” Stark rasps, eyes narrowing. 

“I thought you already decided I did.”

“It was the only way.” He sounds faraway, like he's not talking _to_ Steve anymore, but _at_ him. Then Stark opens the notebook and closes it again when he finds nothing there. “I guess that’s the nature of this kind of…” He waves a hand at Steve, as though dismissing him. "May never know for sure."

Fatigue’s set in Stark’s shoulders again. The conversation’s taken such a radical 180 that Steve’s no longer sure whether he should stay combative. “Did you want something?” Steve asks, hands on his hips.

“You answered my questions.” Tony doesn’t look at him, lifting the stack of notebooks and noisily dropping it again. “Only thing left to do is hope you have a good excuse.”

“Excuse,” Steve asks tiredly, “for _what_?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Tony. I didn’t know about the Tesseract until last week.”

“Yeah.” Tony’s pretending to be busy, his back turned to Steve. “No one’s ever responsible, are they?”

“Thanos is responsible. Hydra—” 

“You’re not responsible. Your boyfriend’s not responsible…”

“You want to talk about responsibility? Howard developed the serum, Tony, no one else. He was the one transporting it. Did you ever ask yourself why, or where he was taking it?”

“You’re gonna want to shut your mouth.”

“Maybe Howard shouldn’t have put his wife in the car while transporting a weapon of mass destruction across state lines, you ever think of that?”

Steve only barely reacts in time to catch the mug thrown at his head.

“Get out,” says Stark, pale with rage. “You’re goddamn lucky I’m still working for your ends, you arrogant, _self-righteous_ —”

Steve’s heard enough. He throws the mug hard against the floor. 

It shatters loud enough to ring in his ears. The sound's all the more satisfying for having denied Tony the same release. “Yeah, Stark. You got it in one. I’m trying to bring back the world at personal cost because I’m _selfish._ Maybe if everyone was as selfish as me, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

Steve doesn’t need to be told twice to leave. He walks out of the lab without a backward glance, shattered porcelain cracking satisfactorily under his shoes.

  


  


  


  


“I’ve had enough,” says Steve, both hands covering his face. “I thought it was going better with Tony, but it’s the same old song and dance. Why does everybody think I’m someone I’m not? Is someone going around wearing my face? Like those prostheses SHIELD had a few years back…”

“Anything’s possible,” Natasha says neutrally, shoving her toes under his back where he's lying on the bed. “We don’t know what happened to a lot of the tech after SHIELD’s collapse. For the most part, it was destroyed…”

“But we leaked the blueprints.”

“Not everything. That’s why Fury built the vault. It should still be locked up, but obviously not everyone who worked for SHIELD is… you know. Trustworthy.”

Steve sighs and rolls back to his feet, unable to settle his restless energy. Frowning, Natasha slips her feet under the blankets instead. “This feels like a distraction,” Steve mutters.

“It is a distraction.”

“What the hell happened while I was gone?”

“Pressures are high.” 

“What’s that device that Stark built?”

Natasha narrows an eye, considering. “What device?”

“In his lab. Tubes, lasers. Circles around the whole place, up against the walls in some cases.”

“Could be a particle collider.”

“That’s what I thought too, but I wasn’t sure. You haven’t seen it?” 

“He won’t let me anywhere near the lab. He’ll barely even talk to me, just does that rambling smokescreen thing every time I run into him. Bruce’s gotten cagey, too; every time I catch him coming out of Stark’s lab, he avoids me. Or, y’know… more than usual.”

“How’s it going with Bruce?”

“He’s afraid of me.” Natasha smiles. Steve can’t tell if she’s proud, sorry, or neither. “But he’s willing to dodge me even _though_ he’s afraid of me, which is telling. Shuri and Rocket don’t care about what Stark and Banner are doing, and Bruce is the only one moving between the two labs, so it’s just him and Stark with the answers. I get the impression Bruce needs Shuri’s expertise as much as Stark’s for whatever he’s doing or he’d have moved over altogether.”

“Did Stark and Shuri have a falling out?”

“More that Stark pushed with questions until Shuri lost her temper, detonated some kind of energy surge, and instructed the Dora to clean out the vibranium lab for him. He's got some kind of portable FRIDAY that apparently syncs well with internal computers, though based on his ramblings I have the impression FRIDAY's capabilities are pretty stunted. Shuri won’t let me spy on him either.” Natasha rolls her eyes, like she’s annoyed she hasn’t gotten more answers on her own recognizance. “They’ve started talking again, anyway—Shuri and Stark, I mean. I think they both know they need to work together, but it’s a delicate truce. She keeps cutting off the comm when he talks for too long.”

Steve can’t help but smile. “Well, whatever works, I guess.”

“It doesn’t work—not as far as we’re concerned. Half the team can’t be shutting you out of their operations when the whole problem we’re trying to solve is getting as much information to _you_ as possible. We can’t fight Thanos in ignorance.”

“So what the hell do they think they’re doing? You think they’re shutting me out on purpose?”

“Why else would they be cagey with _me_?”

Steve stares, hands on his hips. “Ulterior motives jeopardize the mission.”

“They sure don’t make it simpler.”

Steve sits down on the bed. He's just trying to make sense of all this. Natasha prods her toes at his leg as he thinks; he shifts just far enough to let her feet back under him again. 

“What happened on Vormir?” she asks quietly.

What can he say? It sounds insane: the Nazi scientist who started all this—the reason Steve was given the Tesseract serum in the first place—now stands between him and wielding the stones.

“There have been moments in the last few weeks,” Steve finally says, flexing his fingers against his palm, “where I’m not sure if I’m hunting the Infinity Stones anymore, or if they’re hunting me.”

“What do you mean?”

Steve meets her eye. “I know how this is gonna sound.”

“Okay.”

“The keeper of the Soul Stone... I knew him. Who he was before. He used to go by the name of Johann Schmidt. He was a Nazi scientist, founded Hydra. He’s the one who made the weapons from the Tesseract, sought to harness its power. I saw him get torn up by the Tesseract right before I went down with the Valkyrie.”

“What—in 1944?”

Steve nods. “And he’s the only person we know of who got the serum before me.”

Natasha’s mouth hangs open, though she shuts it when Steve looks to her again.

“It’s tempting to go into Tony’s lab and try and force the intel they're being so cagey about,” Steve goes on. “But I’m no director of SHIELD. I’ve got no authority over anyone here. Any iron fist I try to bring down is only gonna produce more pushback, and... increasingly I'm starting to think Fury had a point. I might be dangerous.”

"That's not what he said." 

"Then I'm compromised, I'm not... an objective participant in all this. Some kind of fate's at work here..." 

"Hey," Natasha says, wiggling her toes under his thigh. "Enough of that. We need you, you know that. I don’t know if this is a comfort or not, but I don’t think Stark’s working against you.”

"He may not be working against my goals, but I think it’s definitely possible he’s working against _me_. He’s been pushing for Thor to be the one to wield the stones. It’s not like he’s the only one to express discomfort with the idea.”

“No one’s comfortable with the idea, but it's what we've got. Don't spiral out on me. We're getting somewhere.” Her encouraging smile mostly only tells Steve how pathetic he sounds. "You've never let anyone tell you what or who you are. Don't start now."

Steve nods and rubs a hand at his face. She has a point. He's losing perspective. “Well, regardless of what Stark's problem is, I’d sooner not have another throwdown fight while we're trying to figure things out. Maybe it’s for the best if we don’t try to work together for a while.” 

"You got something in mind?" 

"I don't know. I've never been good at... sitting." 

“Me neither. Field team, you and me.”

“Only there’s no field.”

“Let's find one. Double down on what we know, try to track down what we don't. We can hunt down SHIELD personnel, see if we can locate Fury. Someone, somewhere, has to know something. If we start in New York, try to track down old contacts, maybe we can turn over whatever rock he’s hiding under.”

“If he’s hiding under a rock.”

“Fifty percent chance works both ways. Worth a shot, right? See what he knows that he didn’t want to say." Natasha shrugs. "He relies on his network. There’s no way he hasn’t talked to anyone since he left Homestead. If we don’t find him, someone from SHIELD might still be able to tell us something. How many people were working on Pegasus in the first place?”

Steve leans forward, resting his chin in his hands. “The Tesseract spent centuries on Earth before Schmidt found it. He… the Keeper on Vormir, anyway, said someone found it before him, told it to…” But he shakes his head. “There might be information on it that we haven’t thought to look at yet. Other people who knew about the stone that we haven’t tapped.”

“In Hydra files,” Natasha says, and Steve nods.

“Maybe track Hydra's experimentation, see what we can find out about its history. I wouldn’t mind knowing.” 

“Give us something to do while the others put in the work. Digging up info, being the field team for the brains.” 

Steve looks at Natasha, long and hard. “You up for this?”

“You know I love a good hunt.”

“You don’t have to.”

Natasha looks at him like he’s said something stupid, but Steve only shrugs. “Rhodes is dealing with the here and now. Barton’s got Asgardians. You could join them instead, have some kind of palpable impact on the world. I think Thor’s on the verge of developing a Plan B, something for confronting Thanos if I go in a direction he doesn’t like, or if he thinks I’m gonna fail—”

“Steve,” Natasha interrupts. “We’re a team. You’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me now.”

It’s brief, but sure. After she wiggles her toes under his thigh and smiles, Steve doesn't even try to talk her out of it.

  


  


  


  


Weeks turn to months; months turn to years.

  


  


  


  


They don’t find Fury.

They find the chapel that used to house the Tesseract—or at least the Tønsberg church that used to hold it. Destroyed in 1942 during the Nazi occupation, the archivist tells them; he is at least helpful, lending them a candle to read by when the power flickers out. The site houses a row of condominiums now. Steve and Natasha stare at the complex from the cafe across the square and agree any trace of Tesseract history has been long since erased from this place.

Despite the dead end, Norway is nice. City centres have survived better in parts of Europe than across the US, by and large. Months spent splitting their time between Clint’s, the Avengers compound, and holing up in New York and DC’s resistance headquarters has taught Steve and Natasha enough about that. 

After so long spent looking for Fury, all they found was an armoured vehicle, turned up in one of their countless patrols of the parkades of New York.

Maria Hill’s cell phone still sat in the cupholder.

The car was there with all the others, its combustion line cut. It’d been towed off the streets and decommissioned, when it’d sat abandoned for weeks by the time they found it. The garage was a bizarre boneyard of the dead: the closest thing to gravestones their drivers will ever get. Empty tin cans, seats covered in dust.

Maria’s car—or Fury’s—was clean. But they’d expected that. Months spent tracking SHIELD and they’d arrived well prepared, primed by experience, for the probability that they’d find nothing there.

That was almost a year ago now. The few traces of SHIELD they’ve found had proved harder still to track. Telecommunications have turned chaotic at best in the US, with authorities forcing a lockdown on most major cities—including in communications—in a desperate attempt to take stock of the remaining population. Most of Steve and Natasha’s time over almost two years has been spent coordinating with the New York and DC Underground—a complex network of people resisting wrangling by the government. 

“If you’re still willing to call that freakshow a government,” finished one woman, assessing Steve with distrust.

“Authoritarianism isn’t government, ma’am,” Steve told her, accepting the ammo he’d been passed. The downside of a lawless society was that open carry became necessary. Natasha had argued him down until he at least agreed to carry a pistol. “Can’t save the universe if someone shoots you first,” she’d said, and though Steve had still been hesitant to resort to the rules of war, he had acquiesced when Natasha physically put the gun in his hand.

The upside of a lawless society was that open carry was actually possible, and that the ‘Underground’ component of society was well prepared and willing to share. Being Captain America had initially hindered his cause with them, but a solid few weeks of getting to know people and finally someone who could vouch for Steve’s disregard for national convention came out of the woodwork to get them in.

It was within the New York Underground—hundreds of thousands of people strong, more likely millions, far from literally underground since the city had been roughly divided into those who recognized the ‘government’ and those who did not—that he and Nat eventually found their tenuous SHIELD connections and figured out that the ghost of the org that had re-formed after 2014 had effectively disbanded in the face of catastrophe.

That was only recently. It’d been a long twenty months of travel and misinformation. They’d frequented the Avengers compound when they needed to regroup; spent several consecutive months at Clint’s, combing through SHIELD files to near completion, desperate to find any hints they could about how to forge ahead. They found little on the Tesseract but did find other errands to run, new leads to pursue. Months spent in Eastern Europe had been to hunt down Hydra files to see what, if anything, they’d known about the Tesseract before the Cataclysm had finally pushed their remaining operations out of Nat’s scope.

But, nearly two years later, Steve was forced to accept that it all led to nothing. Scraps of information were passed along to Wakanda as they were found, but it was hardly enough to call a success. 

Natasha talks to Bruce once a month or so. For some reason, no one in the palace seems to want to talk to Steve. That's fine. He trusts Natasha to convey the information that matters and weaponize the rest far better than he ever could. 

Steve doesn’t really want to talk anyway. Frustration is an undercurrent he only barely manages to keep under wraps most days. Some days, he doesn’t. Some days he’s angry. Has to find ways to get rid of his energy and often only barely manages that. Other days he can’t find it in him to get up at all, daunted by the prospect of spending another futile day pursuing futile leads. 

Thanos is slipping away from him. Bucky is slipping. Sam and Wanda—they’re slipping too. They’re all pushed further out of his reach the longer they wait, the longer they can’t find anything.

They have no way forward. A galactic threat is trying to be solved on a solitary planet by an underpowered people who don’t know enough.

Natasha allows these low days from him now and again. She uses the opportunity to reset herself; re-dyes her hair, gets Steve to sit up long enough to trim his, too. Usually she disappears for a few hours and leaves him to grieve, coming back with food and news from Shuri, Bruce, or Tony about how things are progressing in Wakanda. 

After Norway, they hole up in Avengers compound for a while. Rhodey’s still there, trying to make inroads between factions who don’t want to talk to each other, or can’t.

Eventually, they have to keep moving. There’s no stalling anywhere for along.

The trouble is that they’ve been pursuing rote busywork for the last six months at least. They haven’t been back to Wakanda in nearly a year. Nebula hasn’t checked in since she left barely two days after he and Nat did. Rocket’s stationed on Nidavellir now, working to ready things for incoming Asgardians.

“Should we go back?” Steve asks sometimes, staring at the ceiling in the dead of the night.

“And do what?” Natasha asks—sometimes sleepily, sometimes not.

She has a point. The world has no place for them. Steve’s the last hope that anyone's got, and he can’t help them all the same.

  


  


  


  


Steve can’t tell if it’s because it’s winter, but Natasha comes up with a reason to go to Southern California. She means well, but Steve doesn’t generally feel like taking off his coat. The plan is to break into Stark Industries headquarters—shuttered, by the sound of things, given Pepper’s disappearance and Tony’s inability or unwillingness to handle operations from overseas—and see if they can dig up information on the Tesseract from Howard's old files. 

It’s a good idea, given the options they have left; it might give them more information on transference. From what Shuri says, they’re still prototyping the device to extract aether from a stone back in Wakanda. Any bit helps. At least it’s worth a shot.

Steve hates the sun, but Natasha wants to go and scope things out in the light of day. They don’t separate much, but sometimes it’s a no-brainer. Steve hasn’t seen much vulnerability out of Natasha since they left Wakanda, as though just having something to do shores up her defences. It makes a certain degree of sense. Idleness frays them both. At least one of them is functional. Steve mostly feels like a dead weight these days.

Their motel is on the outskirts of town, away from checkpoints and government eyes. It hasn’t been maintained since the Cataclysm; that much is clear. The point is that it’s out of the way and somehow still running. Steve doesn’t give a shit about the mice in the walls as long as the ceiling stays over his head.

He makes plans to get into the shower while Natasha’s gone, then actually manages it an hour later. He even goes so far as to pull clean clothes out of the dresser. He can at least get dinner. Natasha found this place, got them here, made the plan to infiltrate Stark Industries, and now is doing the recon they need to figure out how to make that happen. Steve can get dinner. There’s gotta be someone selling food around here somewhere—out of their kitchen, or maybe still legitimately. All he has to do is take a walk and find out.

Clean pants. Fresh t-shirt and the rest. He turns on the shower and thinks about doing laundry. He was able to unpack since they’re in the area for a few days, but his clothes have that musty smell from a while on the road, from sleeping in the car. Now they only use the Quinjet for going overseas. 

The water sputters out freezing cold and a little dirty, but clears and warms up in time. Steve steps in and lets the water cascade over his face, down his neck, one hand propping against the shower wall. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow he’ll have things to do. It’s a matter of getting through this day to the next, then to the one after that. One step at a time.

Another step away from Thanos. Away from everyone who's gone.

Steve bows his head. Something’s gotta give eventually. The universe has to cut them a break. Nothing else makes any sense.

  


  


  


  


"Steve.” 

Natasha's voice—sharp, a little urgent, just on the other side of the bathroom door. Steve straightens fast, towel limp in his hand.

“Yeah?”

A long pause. Natasha exhales. It doesn’t sound right. Even through the door, the tension cuts thick.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks, drying himself faster.

“Nothing.”

A lie. Steve pulls on sweatpants and tries to pull open the door, but Natasha drags it abruptly shut. “Get decent,” she says. “Come out here when you’re dressed. Just try to stay calm, okay?" She pauses there, apprehensive. "I think it's really him. I just need you to confirm.“ 

“Natasha… who is it?”

“You need to see for yourself. Just… brace yourself, Steve. It’s…”

He really doesn't like her tone. He can’t read it, can’t figure her out. “Are you safe?”

“I’m safe,” she says. “Wasting away again in Margaritaville.”

Steve’s shoulders relax. That’s been their signal that everything’s fine since they—with Sam—had taken their first weekend off from hunting out weapons overseas. Her assurance narrows the candidates down. It can’t be Thanos—could it be Tony? Something’s happened, if Steve’s meant to brace himself. His mind flits to Fury—had he been hiding at Stark Industries this whole time? It'd be just like him to somehow find them here, to resurface in the middle of nowhere after nearly two years missing with some kind of cryptic mission.

Steve pulls a shirt on over his head and opens the door, moving slow. Natasha backs up and stands in front of the room's front door with crossed arms, blocking his view where it’s open a crack.

She doesn't look panicked. Just tense, turned aside a little, holster still on. A ready stance.

“Should I be armed?” Steve asks.

“You trust me to have your back?”

“Always.”

Natasha nods. “Just take a deep breath. Try to keep your head, because I think it’d be good to try to assess the situation objectively. I can't read him the way that you can—"

“Natasha—“

But she steps aside before he can ask, pulling open the door with her.

Standing in the hall, besetting Steve with clear eyes, his hair tied high at the back of his head— 

    —is Bucky.

  



	12. On History

  


Steve doesn’t breathe.

It’s him—Steve would know him anywhere. Bucky looks different from the last time Steve saw him: clean-shaven, well taken care of. His hair's short on the sides; he stands adorned in jeans and a leather jacket. But when Bucky’s gaze fixes on him, bright and searching, Steve knows it’s him. He swore a long time ago he wouldn’t forget those eyes again.

Time has slowed to an impossible throb. Steve’s mouth is dry, throat tight, joints locked. His body’s offline. A thousand miles away, Natasha stands by the door. 

An imposter wouldn’t have made it this far. Natasha would have checked him out, shaken him down. It’s a miracle Bucky still looks as good as he does, having run into Nat. She must have reason to believe…

“Hi,” Bucky says.

Steve claps a palm over his mouth, but the sob ekes out from between his fingers. Bucky’s voice—God, it sounds like him, it's him. The sound rouses something in him he thought he'd lost. It takes all he has not to drop to his knees, to wrap his arms around Bucky and never let go.

But Bucky died. Steve saw it happen. It happened in front of him; ash on his hands. No body left at the foot of a canyon. Steve’s played it over a thousand times: Bucky’s slow unspooling, his molecular unmaking.

“Natasha,” Steve rasps. It’s only once he sounds terrified that Steve realizes he is.

“I think it’s him,” she replies from far away. “Says he’s got a good reason. It’s plausible, but…”

“I know this is,” Bucky begins, but then stops, looking as dumbfounded as Steve. God, he’s familiar; he’s so familiar, Steve aches. “I don’t know how to convince you. I…” He takes a hesitant step into the room, showing his hands as he walks: gloved and unarmed. “I’ll answer anything you want. I’ll prove who I am however I can. Is there anything that you…”

But Bucky must hear the hitch in Steve’s chest, because he stops moving. “Listen,” Bucky says. “I’m gonna try to…” He gestures, helpless. “You came to Wakanda five times; six, counting cryo. January, when I woke up; the week before Memorial Day. September, around Labour Day. December over the holidays, then April, when all this went to shit. Twenty-six days and it wasn’t enough. I made like forty different stews, you read Agatha Christie when modern thrillers bored you—”

But Steve can’t think of any of that. He hasn’t thought about that unless he’s had to in months. “Bucky,” he says, trying to stop him, but his name sounds so real that Steve chokes; finds he can’t say more. 

Bucky’s brow steeples—that unwavering gaze. “I just… What’ll convince you?”

The trouble is that Steve barely needs convincing. It’d taken a heartbeat to know it was Bucky in DC six years ago, and it’s taken just as long now. His mind had been quick to fill in the blanks for how Bucky could’ve been there: Zola’s experimentation, the serum, the fall. Now it’s happening again. Did Bucky survive the Snap somehow? Did his ashes rearrange, form after Steve left? Was Shuri wrong about the kind of force it took to kill the serum? Did it keep him alive this whole time?

Steve should have kept vigil. He should have stayed, to be sure.

“Steve.”

Natasha again. Steve looks to her, surprised she’s still there.

“Is it him?”

Steve’s shock may be slipping by the grain, but he still can’t seem to find his voice. It’s him; it’s him. 

His feet shuffle forward. Bucky tries to intercept Steve’s hand, but Steve’s too fast for that, too sure. He grasps Bucky’s chin, tips him centre, and—he’s real. No mirage. Steve can feel him. His face is right here, attached to the rest of him.

Tears spill from Steve’s eyes without his knowing they were there. His fingers map the familiar angles of Bucky’s jaw. He’s alive. He’s real, he’s alive; Steve can feel him.

Bucky’s jaw flexes under his touch. He scans a knuckle against Steve’s face—a ghost of a touch, barely there; there enough. He catches a tear, then brushes a thumb, his hand following a natural line to cradle Steve’s head. It overwhelms him; secures him. It’s unmistakably intimate, unmistakably Bucky. 

Steve tips his head forward, throat burning. “It’s him,” he grits out. He holds both hands at Bucky’s face, setting their brows flush. Tremors course through him, fingers to core. He nods. “It’s him.”

“You’d bet your life on it?”

Steve lifts his head, pressing his lips to Bucky’s brow. Bucky’s fingers close in the front of Steve’s shirt, and just like that, Steve’s lost his voice again.

The gesture says enough. Natasha wrenches open the door, grabbing her things. “Twenty-three hours."

Steve doesn’t know what she means until Bucky turns toward her. “Twenty-three hours,” he repeats, hoarse.

“I don’t want to see you when I get back.”

“You won’t.”

“What,” Steve begins thickly, but Natasha shoots him a silencing look.

“Be careful,” she tells him. “I mean it.” Her eyes flicker to Bucky, though they soften on their way back to Steve. “No telling what other weirdness might come through.”

Steve hears without understanding. Natasha could have said anything and he’d have nodded the same. 

She doesn’t wait around. A flash of blonde hair and she’s out the door, pulling it shut behind her.

Bucky.

“Steve.” 

Bucky’s trying to create distance, pushing at his chest. Steve reacts with animal instinct, afraid to let go. “Stop. Steve—stop it. I need you to stop and listen.” 

Steve starts peeling at the hem of Bucky’s gloves, suddenly hating the feel of leather against his skin. He’ll take off Bucky’s jacket next; too many barriers between them. 

Bucky clicks his tongue and grasps at Steve’s hands, forcing him to a stop. When he lets go again, he pulls at the fingers of his glove himself. It reveals the same prosthetic he’d had in Wakanda—black with gold lines, a constellation. Steve never learned it on him, the way Bucky moved with it. 

Bucky reaches under the hem of his other glove in adjustment before peeling it off too, although much more gingerly. “Alright,” he says, shoving the gloves in his pocket. It’s Bucky, he’s Bucky; _Bucky_ grabs him to keep him still. “Don’t say anything. Just let me—”

But his expression falls along with his sentence, reaching a now-bare hand to brush the tears off Steve’s face. Steve leans into the way Bucky knows him, knows how to touch him, holding his hand in place, lips against his palm. “Where have you been?” Steve whispers, heart in his throat. “Why didn’t you find me? Two _years_ , Bucky, you let me think—”

“No,” Bucky breathes, “Steve, I’d never—it’s not that I was here and didn’t tell you. I _wasn’t_ here, that’s what I’m trying to… listen.” He lets Steve kiss his thumb, then tilts up Steve’s chin until their eyes meet. “I’m not from here.” Bucky says it slow, like he thinks Steve won’t understand. “I’m not from this world. I’m delivering a message—no, you gotta listen,” he says, fixing Steve’s face centre. “I’m from the next world over. I’m not him, I’m not… yours. I’m from the world where you beat him, Steve—I’m from the world where you _win_.”

Steve holds Bucky’s eye. He sees no spark of deceit, no sign of malice. There’s nothing in his gaze but trepidatious care. Steve’s seen this look on Bucky’s face before, when he’s tried to convince Steve to do something or not—to stop picking fights, to go home, to stop trying to enlist. His fingers are bunched in Steve’s shirt the same way they did then—holding him still, a balled fist weighing at his bleeding heart. 

Bucky’s always the same. He’s always the same.

“I don’t… Bucky, I—”

“I have something,” Bucky cuts in, “to help.”

“Just,” Steve whispers. He grasps at his arm, shutting his eyes. “Wait.” If Thanos lost, and Bucky’s alive… 

It’s too much to think about, it’s too much now. The specifics don’t matter, as long as Bucky’s here. Bucky's prosthetic is steady, bunched at Steve’s hip, though the fingers of his right hand shake against his chest. Bucky’s here; Bucky found him. 

Steve saves him.

“I save you?” He swallows. “I saved you.”

Bucky nods. “Me and five trillion others.”

Five trillion. Jesus Christ. “How?”

“That’s what I’m trying to show you. I’m reaching into my jacket for a set of blueprints, if you’d just let me go.”

Steve lets go of Bucky’s wrist. The second Bucky takes the blueprints out, Steve loses impulse control, reaching forward to slip the jacket off his shoulders. It looks strange on him—kind of right, but not something Steve knows. His instinct is to strip him down, to see the shape of him, see it’s Bucky underneath.

Bucky takes the jacket in his free hand and looks Steve in the eye, turning to drape it delicately over a chair. For the first time since Steve reached out for him, they’re not touching anymore. He feels fevered, doesn’t know what to do. Bucky nods Steve over toward the dresser; Steve follows, just wanting to be near. “Don’t think these’ll make much sense to you,” Bucky says, spreading out the plans, “but if you get it to Stark, he’ll know what they are. At least, he should; he’s the one that designed them.”

“Stark… designed this? When?”

“In my world. It’s not the device you need; we didn’t have enough time to invent the actual time travel device, I’m sorry. All you told me was to meet you here on this date, and this is what was ready in time. I’m still here so far, so I gotta assume it’s enough.”

Steve shakes his head. He feels like he’s watching all this from outside himself. “I told you?”

Bucky glances at him, mouth thin. “This blueprint is for the device that brought me here.” He gestures to draw Steve’s attention to the plans. It works; Stark’s handwriting is all over it, minuscule and slanting. Barely legible. “With any luck, Stark—your Stark—will look at this, read the instructions _my_ Stark left, and be able to create a prototype based on this that’s actually capable of time travel.”

“Time… travel.”

Bucky gives a short sigh, studying him. “You go back, Steve,” he says, nodding out the window. “You stop all this, before it ever happens. This is my way of helping. It doesn’t matter if you understand the plans; all you need to do is get them to Stark. Everything should fall into place from there. Can you do that for me? Make sure he knows where they came from and what they’re for.”

Steve's heart is pounding, his thoughts racing. But finally, he’s starting to figure out what Bucky’s doing here. 

He’s giving him that break.

All he needs is a chance.

Steve looks at the blueprints. God, he wishes he could think straight. “I get it to Stark,” he repeats slowly.

“He is alive here, right?”

“He’s alive.” Steve shakes his head, but the cobwebs don’t leave. “We’re… not talking.”

“We—oh. You and Stark? After everything?”

“We were talking, right after. But then we weren’t. It doesn’t matter, I’ll get it to him. What do I, uh…” Steve sniffs hard, rubbing a hand at his face. “What do I say? Time travel? That can’t be enough.”

“Uh…” Bucky blinks, like he hadn’t thought of that. “I guess it depends. Is he up to speed on… I mean, does he know…?”

“He’s more in the loop on Infinity stuff than I am right now.”

“Does he know that it’s supposed to be you.”

“Oh." Steve looks away. He doesn’t want to see the look on Bucky’s face when he admits he’s throwing himself on the pyre again. "He knows."

But Bucky doesn't object. He only nods, gesturing at the blueprints again. “Then he’ll know the stakes. With any luck, he’ll be able to turn this from a device that’ll cut you through space into one that’ll cut you through time. Just tell him someone from the dimension where you win came through the quantum realm—”

“Quantum—” Steve shuts his eyes. “Buck, I don’t…”

“Scott Lang’s thing. Stark’ll know, he probably wrote it down.” Bucky raps a knuckle at the plan’s top corner. “He’ll know the plans are legitimate when he sees them. Dunno if you want to mention it was me who brought them or not. Lie if you want; say it was him. He might find that pill easier to swallow.”

Steve’s eyes hang on the plans. In the world’s thinnest script, Stark has written in the top corner: _Lang → Pym. Pym q phys, Lang q rlm, Pym wife ok 20-odd yrs, Lang ok too. Banner, Strange, Shuri, dad. Girl outside time? T=? but q rlm → s stone → fold s → q ent → t=~T if v++?. Q’s w/o A’s._

There’s a lot more information in equally tiny print beneath it. Steve can decipher almost none of it, but he knows a breakthrough when he sees one. “So we use this. I go… back. I get back far enough to take the stones, before Thanos…?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Bucky says. He’s hedging his words, Steve can tell. “Something, uh…” He takes a breath. “The fissure point has to be as close to the Cataclysm as possible.”

“The fissure point…?”

“I’ll tell you everything I can, Steve, I promise. But…” Bucky pinches a smile. “I kinda don’t want to explain it more than once. It’d be nice if you were a little more…”

“Cogent.”

“Yeah.”

Neither one of them moves. Time passes in ragged beats. 

Finally Bucky breaks their stasis. He reaches high, as though in slow motion, dragging his nails gently through Steve’s beard. “That bad?” he asks quietly. There’s something in his eyes Steve can’t parse.

“I…” Steve’s throat closes up. He blinks at Bucky twice. “God, Buck. I missed you.”

His breath goes ragged again, composure lost. Bucky’s hand falls to his side, expression slack. They’re stuck in stasis again, only this time on a precipice. Bucky swallows, eyes fixed on Steve’s lips. “I guess,” he murmurs, glancing up at him again, “uh… I guess that’s business concluded.”

“It can’t be.”

“If you want… there’s a bit of time. But it’s…”

Bucky grabs his hand, hesitant, and Steve understands—his stepping forward and back, standing close and then away. He always was the strategist, turning Steve’s plans viable. It’s not that Bucky doesn’t want him; it’s that he had to do his duty. He had to get the work done.

Now he’s done it. Now there’s nothing standing in their way.

Steve steps forward before Bucky can finish, exhilarated and petrified. He splays a hand at Bucky’s back. Bucky leans where he’s taken, fingers bunching in the front of Steve’s shirt. 

It takes Steve a second to figure out why Bucky's face is downcast, but then he hears the thin reed of his breath, feels the shake of his limbs. “I can’t stay for long,” Bucky murmurs. “I’m not here for long, Steve. We don’t have to do this. I can leave without—”

“Shut up.” Steve’s throat twists the words, barely lets them out.

“I just—” But Steve shuffles Bucky backward until he’s run up against the table, his voice breaking breathlessly when Steve hoists him up by his thighs.

“I have to leave,” Bucky whispers. His fingers sink into Steve’s hair, betraying his want. “I can’t stay. We don’t have to hurt each other more than we—”

Bucky’s sentence dies in the soft capture of Steve’s mouth. 

Steve lingers. His heart’s pounding in his ears, making it hard to think, but it’s Bucky’s mouth, Bucky’s lips, Bucky’s hands in his hair. The moment passes; Bucky’s mouth parts easy, letting him in. Steve’s helpless to it. It’s Bucky; he kisses the same, knows how long to linger before kissing him again. He’s different again—strong and vulnerable, unflinching and firm. But his ankles hook around Steve’s knees, dragging him close, and he’s just the same. He’s Bucky, alive. 

The kiss renews—the slowform greeting they should have had. Feeling builds, bleeding out of Steve’s chest until he can barely breathe. “God,” he whispers against Bucky’s mouth. “How much time do we have?”

“A day.”

“A _day_?”

“Twenty-two hours and change. It’s not my world, Steve, I can’t…” But Bucky pulls at him, like he hates what he’s saying. “There’s a molecular window we gotta pay attention to. We can’t—”

Steve noses at his neck. He can’t help it. One hand unzips Bucky’s sweatshirt; he slides his hands to Bucky’s waist. He’s hot to the touch. “I don’t care.”

“I’m telling you, I do. I’m leaving tomorrow. This can’t last, Steve, it’s temporary, do you understand? We can walk away now and forget about— _ah_ —forget trying to start up what we—”

But Steve’s got Bucky under him now, rucking his hands under the tight hem of his tank, and when he drags his lips along Bucky’s neck Bucky meets him halfway and kisses him hard, fingers tight in his hair, holding him close like Steve wants. 

Steve meant what he said; he doesn’t care about molecular windows. He doesn’t care about temporary or walking away. All he cares about is this: about Bucky touching him, about feeling like this, about feeling alive for the first time in months. 

And from the way Bucky grasps and kisses him back, Steve gets the idea he’s not alone.

  


  


  


  


They take their time.

Steve undresses him with reverence, taking any opportunity he can to move his lips across his chest, his neck, his shoulders. He wants to learn every inch of his lean body. Bucky’s thinner than he was. He always changes; he’s always the same. 

Bucky’s hands stay in his hair, keeping him near. Not that Steve wants to drift. The sounds Bucky’s making chip away at what little grasp on control Steve’s thrown up. They kiss hungrily, greedily, barely breaking apart when Steve tips him onto the bed. His hands fumble with the clasp of Bucky’s belt, pushing his pants off his hips, and— _oh_ , God, he feels the same in his hand. Sounds just the same. Steve can’t get enough. He noses behind Bucky’s ear, desperate to find the source of some fundamental essence that makes him feel like this, that does this to him. His hands delve, grasping, wanting, seeking more.

Bucky gasps in his ear. Steve wants his cock in his mouth, wants to hear the way Bucky comes apart over him, but he can’t stop kissing him, can’t break away. 

“Lube in my jacket,” Bucky finally mutters, and—for a second, Steve forgets to think. 

Bucky wanted this. Bucky came across dimensions with getting fucked in mind. 

“Oh, God,” Steve groans. Bucky pushes off the bed, kicking his pants to the floor. Steve turns to follow, but then he catches sight of Bucky—naked, perfect, erect and well toned, and stops where he is. When Bucky walks back to Steve, he looks like a phantom in the room’s dim light. 

For a second Steve isn’t sure that when he touches him he’ll be there. Ash on his hands. But he’s there. He’s there. Bucky kneels on the bed, over him, legs flush against Steve’s hips. An undertow of relief pulls, leaves Steve heady and stupid. Wordlessly, Bucky pulls Steve’s shirt over his head and lets it fall on the floor.

They both pause here, distracted. Bucky fixes on Steve with a solid kind of sadness, like having Steve under his hands means as much to him as it does to Steve. The lube falls onto the bed; neither one of them looks to see where it falls. Steve’s much too busy watching Bucky’s face, Bucky’s fingers busy stroking at his ribs, as though remembering his form. 

Steve can’t take his eyes off him; he wouldn’t want to try. Bucky’s missed him. It’s all over his face, in the pinched-off sorrow he’s trying to mask. 

Urgency tips into panging empathy. Steve runs his hands over Bucky’s thighs; a comfort long-missed. God, Steve’s always loved the hair on him. This coarse gentility.

“How long has it been?” Steve asks quietly. “For you?”

It’s just for a second, but grief flickers onto Bucky's face. Steve knows for sure, then—

He’s not with Bucky on the other side.

Steve reaches, tangling his fingers in the understrands of Bucky’s hair. The cut makes him look modern, shaved at the sides. The dark, volumous swath tied at the back gives his gaze a sharp intensity that makes Steve’s heart race. If the Bucky he knew in Wakanda had sought out softer things, this Bucky has earned back a harder edge.

Bucky’s breathing as hard as him. What Steve wouldn’t give to know what he’s thinking. Bucky feels impenetrable, in a way; two years, two dimensions, from two different worlds. Different losses and diffident gains.

But they found each other after seventy years. They’ve found each other now. The fact of it seems to overwhelm them both. They’ve been put back to their fragile, shaking state in a matter of seconds, hands seeking something just from the other's bare skin.

“Can we just,” Bucky asks, voice breaking. He swallows, doesn’t look at him; doesn’t finish the question.

Steve takes a guess. He leans forward, hands sweeping, to kiss away the sentence’s remains.

It’s what Bucky wanted. There’s an undercurrent of want in their kisses’ pace that keeps things on edge. It takes them a long time to untangle; Steve finally kicks his sweatpants off, one hand grasping for the lube as Bucky shuffles closer into his lap. In a matter of seconds Steve’s wrapped his hand around Bucky’s long cock, stroking him off slow, determined to hear every sticking breath, every cracking sigh he has to offer. He noses at the hollow of Bucky’s throat, finds sweat to lick there; Steve doesn’t register it when Bucky grabs the lube for himself.

Bucky shifts his hips forward. He grabs Steve’s fingers and folds them around them both, then wraps his own hands overtop, guiding Steve’s rhythm. Bucky fucks hotly into the nest of their fists, and Steve’s not gonna last; he’d meant to take as long as he could, but Bucky’s want snakes through him like a searing wire. Bucky kisses him hard, deep, fucking into their hands and against his dick, and Steve’s trapped like this—off his balance and clinging, sitting there to take his undoing at Bucky's hands. 

Steve was always his. He always will be. He's proving it now. Steve's fingers sink hard into Bucky’s thigh, in gratitude or warning, and it forces a sound out of Bucky that puts Steve on the brink. “Bucky,” he mutters, and oh, God, his name is enough; Bucky tastes so goddamn good in his mouth. “Bucky—God, oh, Bucky, _God_ —” and Steve unravels hard, face pressed against him with Bucky’s mouth open and gone at his brow. 

Bucky gives no voice to Steve’s name, but he mouths it, fucking into the hot mess of their hands. When he comes it’s with a grip in Steve’s hair, tight enough to Steve see stars. He clings to Bucky with brutal need, bidding him not to move; never to move. God, he prays neither one of them ever has to move again.

  


  


  


  


For a long time, they don’t. 

Entangled in their mess of come and sweat and tears and want, Steve mouths sloppy lines across Bucky’s skin, not committing to much. Wanting only to taste. He’s nowhere near done. His dick doesn’t flag for long, reacting just to Bucky, to having Bucky near. The smell of his sweat has done Steve in for years. Waves of arousal waft off Bucky's form and each one hits Steve like a tide, pulling him in, dragging him out.

Soon the pull to move is irrefutable. Steve lifts Bucky up and flips him down on the bed, kissing every place he can find as he crawls down the tight line of his body. Bucky’s fingers press marks into Steve’s skin until Steve reaches blindly again for the lube, nosing against the crease of his hip, sliding his shoulders under Bucky’s knees.

Bucky’s ready for him. He had wanted this. Steve’s drunk on him; he lets muscle memory take the wheel. He sets a slow pace, fucking Bucky with two slow fingers, pressing kisses down the length of his cock until he’s hard again. Steve ruts his hips slow against the bed, closing his lips over the head of Bucky’s cock, taking his time in stretching him out until Bucky’s coiled tight and swearing, fingers bruising against his skin. 

Bucky used to be so vocal. Before the war he’d talk Steve to completion with barely a glancing hand on Steve's dick, waxing poetic on all the things he wanted to do to him—the things he would do to him, the things he had done, going on and without restraint until his voice ran raw. Time had worn that tendency away, but Steve’s finding it in him now, drawing moans out of him until they turn to words. By the time Steve takes his fingers away and pushes in with his dick, Bucky’s got his head thrown back, gasping out moans with every slow thrust. “Steve,” he groans, and then a string of long vowels when Steve pins his wrists over his head. “Oh, God, God, fuck,” and Steve does, listening to the way Bucky chokes on his name until all he gives are the formless, unrestrained sounds of the unrepentantly gone.

Steve’s as gone as him. There’s a block in his throat stopping all sound, but he’d bite his tongue just to hear Bucky come undone at his hands. He reaches down, wraps a hand at his dick, and strokes Bucky off, fucking deep into him as Bucky comes around his cock. It pulls Steve off after him, sparking deep-set longing that Steve thought he'd never feel again: with a burning throat, with fire in his gut, a conviction that if he could only hold Bucky close enough, the world might turn into something good.

  


  


  


  


It’s tempting to doze here. Steve feels wrung-out and stupid, brain still half-offline. But something in the back of his mind won't shut up: he doesn’t want to waste time they don’t have.

Bucky’s body is flush, so gorgeous against him. The serum is strong. Being exhausted in body and mind is no match for the will of his dick to get hard for the third time in an hour.

Bucky grunts, barely stirring. “Are you serious?”

Steve smiles against the back of his neck. “No.”

“You are.”

“I don’t mean it.”

“Were you always this horny?”

“That a serious question?”

A second passes. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Oh. Yeah, actually.”

Bucky exhales a laugh. Steve’s smile comes back again; the second in a minute, the second all year. 

Against him, Bucky arches his back. “There water?” he asks, jaw cracking.

Steve hums. “In the fridge. Only drink bottled, don’t drink from the tap.”

Bucky shifts enough to convince Steve to loosen his grip, but in the end he makes no real effort to move. At least they’ll dehydrate in solidarity.

The motion was distracting. Bucky’s distracting. “You were always gonna fuck me,” Steve murmurs by his ear. Instinct draws his mouth down to the pulsepoint in Bucky’s neck; bullheadedness leads him to suck a mark.

Bucky gives a heady hum. Steve noses himself to a stop, but Bucky’s hand reaches back, pressing Steve’s thigh closer against him. “I’d hoped." 

About fucking him. He’d hoped.

“Is that all?”

“I didn’t know how you’d react to me. Thought you might've attacked.”

“Not you,” Steve murmurs. “Never you.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. When he arches his back a second time, it’s with purpose, pressing his ass against Steve’s dick. “You’re godawful,” he says, grinding down.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“You keep all this fuckbank to yourself all these years?”

Steve offers a breathy laugh. “Uh, you and me cashed in a lot of the… fuckbank.”

“Once a day.”

“Twice all the time in Wakanda.”

“Not three times an hour.”

“You tended to let me know you were done before then.”

Bucky cranes his head toward him halfway. “How?”

“Pushed me off, locked your shoulders, turned away, left. You weren't mean, you were just…” Steve shrugs. “You wanted me exactly how much you wanted me.”

Bucky seems not to know how to take that. “Sorry.”

“Why? Sex near-daily, sometimes twice?” He was far from deprived. On the other hand, Bucky’s as close to him now as he can physically get and it’s still not enough, not near enough. Maybe that’s all he’s feeling; the age-old regret of wasted time.

“You knew I…” Bucky takes a breath. “You know how much I wanted you.”

“Yeah, Bucky. I knew.” Steve presses his lips to his neck, then rests his head, overcome. “I knew.”

Bucky turns in his arms, pulling Steve close. Steve gets all of three seconds to look at his face before Bucky wraps his fingers around Steve’s dick. “I’m not done with you,” Bucky murmurs, lips brushing at Steve’s mouth. His thumb rests on his cock just where it knows to rest, and Steve wants him so bad, wants to kiss him until Bucky decides to let him come.

“Good.”

Bucky strokes him once, slow. Steve is so sensitive; Bucky knows. He knows just where to touch. Steve’s dick jumps in his hand with every glancing stroke, and it all feels like so much; he's losing his mind. 

Bucky loosens his grip, but Steve wants it too bad. He thrusts slowly into Bucky’s loose grip, head bowing as his hips pull back.

"Jesus," Bucky whispers. 

“Bucky.” He thrusts into his hand again.

“God. Steve—hey. Listen: you know I have to leave.”

Steve does pause then. “Why?” he asks, weighty.

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

Bucky grunts his frustration. Steve grabs his hand, desperate for him not to move away. “Okay, okay.”

“I can break it down for you.”

But Steve shakes his head, grabbing Bucky’s hand. “After.”

“If you can’t handle—”

“I can handle it, Bucky. I can, just—” All he wants is to feel him, to feel like this when Bucky's hands are on him. 

Bucky must know, because he pauses long enough to make Steve worry; but then slow, steady, he strokes him off. “The last thing I want,” Bucky says against his lips, “is to hurt you.”

“I—” Steve holds at his arms. “Right now…”

Bucky gets the idea. He grasps at him, runs his open palm soft over his balls. “This what you want?” he murmurs, stroking back up. “This what you want right now?”

Steve nods, need bringing him to silence. Bucky redoubles his grip, legs taking Steve’s between them and holding him down. Bucky grabs at the nape of his neck and kisses him, keeping it slow, making it good, and Steve’s overcome—to be loved this much, after all this time, if only for a day. 

  


  


  


  


The last night before Bucky’d shipped out, after however many hours of dancing, Bucky’d shown up at Steve’s. He'd stunk of booze, walking in the door without saying a word. 

He'd stood there a while, staring into the dark. Steve, who’d been lying awake, thinking nonstop of his own enlistment papers sitting by the range, had watched him standing there in waiting silence, letting the time pass for Bucky’s eyes to adjust. It was the strangest thing they’d ever done: stared at each other through an unyielding dark, knowing the goodbye they’d offered each other at the fair was nowhere near what they’d deserved. 

Bucky had stood staring in the bed’s direction not knowing whether Steve was conscious or not, whether Steve was even there. Steve merely watched him, seeing him there without saying a word. He couldn’t think of what to say. The problem with bidding a lifeline goodbye is that there truly are no goddamn words.

When Bucky did see Steve, he didn’t speak either. He just stumbled forward, shedding his uniform piecemeal, grasping at Steve when he got to the bed. They never once spoke; their mouths did the work. Saying with gestures what words never could.

The way they make love now... it reminds Steve of that night. Staring without speaking. Saying with their bodies what language can’t.

  


  


  


  


As far as Steve is concerned, Bucky drinks water with erotic intent. He is perfectly sculpted, exactly himself. He _is_ thinner, his waist smaller to the touch, like the bulk of his muscles have turned lean off the farm. 

Steve _assumes_ he doesn’t farm anymore. He realizes painfully that he doesn’t know.

“How have you been?” he asks, abrupt.

Bucky stops drinking and blinks at him. He seems as stunned by the question as Steve had felt to ask it. “Uh… God. I’m embarrassed to tell you.”

“Why?”

“On paper it sounds like I haven’t done anything.” Bucky kneels on the bed, handing the water to Steve. “Taught myself physics, couple other things. Trained with Lang, Strange for a while.”

“You…” Steve blinks at him. “Why?”

“Guess I’m a natural for it.”

“For what?”

Bucky gives a thin smile, then nods toward the blueprints. “You’ll find out soon enough. Has to do with sub-atomic particles, time, space…”

Steve gets the idea. “Infinity-grade?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“Depends on your meaning. The Infinity Stones were destroyed, when Thanos…”

Steve’s eyebrows steeple. “They were _destroyed_?”

Bucky looks away. “Yup.”

“Bucky.”

“Mm.”

Steve grabs his wrist. “You can’t say something like that and pretend like it’s nothing. You know I’ve been chasing those things.”

But Steve had misread him; he’s only masking intensity with nonchalance. “Sorry,” says Bucky, honest but brisk. “I got a lot to balance. I can tell you some, but not everything.”

“Why not?”

“I made a promise.”

“A promise? To who?”

Suddenly Bucky looks tired. “Just ask your questions, Steve, I’ll say what I can.” Bucky’s body language is careful, like he’s planning each move. 

It annoys Steve to no end. “How were the stones destroyed?” he asks shortly.

“You destroyed them. Same way you killed Thanos.”

Steve blinks. “ _I_ …?”

Bucky nods, jaw tight. He doesn’t say any more.

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

But he does know. “Bucky.”

“I don’t know, Steve. I don’t know what you did. I don’t know if you learned how to do something, or if it was—” He cuts off, mouth thinning. “Or if it was the power of the stones, I don’t know.”

Now Steve’s starting to understand why he’s reluctant to talk. “I wielded them.”

Bucky nods grimly. “Here’s what I know. Vision got turfed out of the lab, we flocked into the woods for backup to try to keep his head from being torn out. Sound familiar?”

“Very,” Steve murmurs.

“Then Thanos showed up, knocked us out cold. Still with me?”

“Yep.”

“Then when I woke up…” Bucky gestures to him. “There you were. _This_ you, with the stones. And you took Thanos out right there.”

“So Thanos didn’t have the stones.”

“He had all but Vision’s.”

Steve blinks, uncomprehending. “Then how many did I have?”

“Six.”

Steve stares. “But how…?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. It's honest again. “I don’t know anything about how you got them, Steve, that’s the God’s honest truth. That’s more or less what I meant when you asked if you’d traveled back to get to them _before_ Thanos did; I don’t think so. Just based on the optics, I think it’s more likely you somehow got other ones.” 

Steve’s thinking fast. “Are you sure they were Infinity Stones?”

“Honestly, no. I’m not sure of anything. All I got were a few seconds of—” He catches himself, taking a breath. “I got… a limited view of what was going on. I was semi-conscious when you walked through the portal—”

“ _Portal_.”

“Thanos-style. Probably the Space Stone. Anyway, the rest of what I know…” Bucky looks askance, clearly choosing his words. “…was relayed to me in a limited time frame. Based on what I witnessed, and what was corroborated after the fact, it seems reasonable to believe that both you and Thanos wielded legitimate stones, yeah.”

Steve gives Bucky a blank look, but he shrugs. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“That’s a choice you’re making, pal."

“It’s not." Bucky waves away Steve’s circumspect look. “Whatever they were, you had more power.”

“Thanos never got Vision’s stone.”

“No. Big energy showdown later and they were all destroyed, Thanos with them.”

“Vision, too?”

“Vision was already dead. Wanda destroyed him.”

Steve blinks. “Oh. I... guess we couldn’t undo it.”

“No. You were pretty clear about your intentions. You meant for them all to be destroyed.”

Steve sets a hand at his mouth and sighs.

“Steve—whatever you do getting there..." Bucky looks at him, grave. "You can’t change history too early. Everything has to be exactly as it was right up to that point, or my dimension will collapse. It’s unstable.”

“Unstable…?”

“This is complicated—Banner can explain it better—but I’ll give it a shot. How much do you know about dimensions in general?”

“Uh… there are trillions of them? They were created by the Cosmic Entities in the same event as the Big Bang... so many were created to hide the Infinity realms among them. This was to try to prevent any one being from gaining total control of all elements of the universe…” Steve trails off when he sees Bucky’s face. “What?”

“Are you serious?”

“You don’t know this?”

“No. Who told you?”

“Nebula.”

Bucky squints. “The… Guardians’ associate?”

“Who?”

“They came back with Stark…? Quill, Mantis, Drax…”

“Oh, yeah. They’re… all dead, pretty sure.”

“Jesus.”

“I know Rocket, though. He was part of their crew.”

“Yeah, I know Rocket. Groot.”

“Who?”

“His kid or whatever? The tree.”

“Oh.” Steve rubs his fingers unconsciously together. 

Bucky sees it. “Fuck me."

“Yeah.”

Bucky looks at him, then sighs and sits next to him on the bed, back against the headboard. Their legs press together, side by side; Bucky slips his under the covers. Steve smiles and follows suit, wrapping a fond hand at his thigh. 

“So Nebula stayed?” Bucky asks, resting a hand on Steve’s leg in turn.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, cozying up. “She was helpful, especially in the early stages. Knew more about the universe than anyone else, helped make sense of why the stones even exist. Even knew where one was.”

“Really?”

“Went to space together to find it and everything.”

Bucky breathes a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steve looks at him. “Sixth planet of Helgentar. Ever been?”

Bucky stares. He leans forward. “What, _really_?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck? You went to _space_?”

Steve grins, slow. “Yeah, I went to space. No big deal. Only takes two days, you find the right portals.”

“You fuckin serious?”

“Yeah, Buck.”

He shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

“It’s nice out there,” Steve says. “You should go.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

“Hitch a ride out with Rocket.”

“Kill me first.”

Steve freezes. Bucky immediately softens. “Shit. Steve—”

“Forget it.”

Bucky runs his fingers through the hair on Steve's leg. “And did you find it?" he asks. "The stone?”

Steve opens his mouth more than once, but all he manages is a shake of the head. “Bucky... God. I wish I had more to say for myself. I’ve been failing. All I’ve done is fail for two straight years.”

“No,” Bucky cuts in. “It wasn’t supposed to be you. Intergalactic war. We had Asgardian defenders with two dozen years’ notice and they couldn’t stop it.”

“They were busy.”

“And so were we, _fighting Thanos’ forces, alone,_ for _years_. As far as I’m concerned, what you did is impossible. Not knowing how to take on the cosmic forces of the universe on your own? That’s not fucking failing. I saw you do it, Steve. You do it. You don’t fail. You haven’t failed a single cause you’ve served.” Bucky shoots him a pained, wary smile. “God fucking help you.”

They hold each other's gaze a long time. Two dimensions and a hundred years expands between them—an unfathomable gulf, felt even with their legs pressed flush under the sheets.

“If you want to make sure this works,” Bucky goes on, “trust me when I say that nothing can change until right before the Cataclysm. Time travel is… tricky. The way new dimensions are made is from the _first_ moment you change history. That means that if you change anything before you meet Thanos…”

“A new timeline spurns.”

Bucky nods. “All timelines that spin out of other ones are unstable.” He holds his hands up in the air, one stacked over the other. “ _Yours_ —where Thanos won—is stable. It always happens.” He moves his hand underneath. “But some outcomes depend on other outcomes to exist.”

“Thanos has to win so Thanos can lose,” Steve mutters.

“Exactly. Strange tell you that?”

“Stark told me Strange said it.”

“So that’d make Strange…”

“Dead.”

Bucky grunts. Steve looks over, but he can’t read his face. “Point is that if you change history too early, everything happens different.” He wiggles the bottom hand again—maybe to indicate its change. “That makes the spin-off dimension different, too.” He wiggles his prosthetic overtop. “You change things too early, probably you never meet Thanos in the Wakandan woods. Probably the stars never align for me to come through and get you the blueprints. Maybe it takes you a hell of a lot longer to figure out how to go back in time. Maybe you never get what you need. Maybe Thanos never loses. One in fourteen million, Steve.” 

“Yeah." He exhales hard. "Okay. No pressure.”

“You already do it. You know that now. And if I'm not answering your questions, I need you to understand that it's because I can’t risk leading you astray.” Hesitating, Bucky slides his fingers to find the grip of his hand. “I don’t want to speculate wrong and screw up the stakes. It's my job to do everything I can not to fuck things up. So I can tell you that you come; that you beat him; that you have the stones when you do it. That I don’t know how you get them, but I don’t think you take them from under Thanos’ nose. I can tell you those things, because you need those facts to make it happen. But I don’t want to tell you almost anything else, mostly because I don’t fucking know. I don’t know how you do it, Steve. All I know is that you do.”

Steve nods in thinking silence, squeezing Bucky’s hand. 

“I know it’s hard for you,” Bucky goes on. “I wish I had more to give.”

Steve shakes his head. “Bucky, what you’ve given me…” He swallows hard, throat bricking. “God, what you’ve given me just by coming.”

For a long time, they stare at nothing, fingers gripping until it hurts. Then Bucky rolls into his lap and kisses Steve until he forgets everything that isn’t the way Bucky feels in his arms.

  



	13. The Hair of Rebellion, and Other Farewells

  


The knock on the door wakes Steve out of a doze.

He’s sitting before he’s fully awake. Bucky does the same, gaze sharp toward the door.

“This your end?” Steve mutters.

“No."

Steve throws back the covers, gesturing at Bucky to get down. “Just a second,” he calls to the door.

Bucky shoots Steve a flat look and gets out of bed with him. “Who knows you’re here?”

“Only Natasha.” Steve pulls on his sweatpants and kicks a shirt up into his hand on his way across the room. If it was Nat at the door, she would’ve said something. He grabs his sidearm out of the drawer and cocks the hammer, slipping his back against the wall by the door. 

“Who is it?”

“Food delivery,” comes the muffled reply. “You Steve?”

“Didn’t order any food.”

“Somebody did.”

Steve looks to Bucky, who shakes his head. “Who?”

“Didn’t give a name. Said it was ‘calories for stamina.’ Do I want to know?”

Steve watches Bucky relax with him. He turns the bolt of the lock, then pauses, waiting for someone to storm in. 

Nothing happens. Steve cracks the door open just enough to peer through.

An ornery-looking guy holds up a giant bag of food. Apart from being annoyed, he doesn’t look like much of a threat.

Steve opens the door further, holding the gun out of sight for Bucky to take as he slips behind him. “Hi.”

“You Steve or not?”

“I’m Steve.”

The guy hands him the food without fanfare.

Steve takes the bag and peers within. It’s food, alright—real food, by the smell of things, unprocessed or the closest thing to. Natasha had really splurged. Steve hadn’t realized he was hungry until right now. “What do I owe you?”

“Been paid.”

Steve takes the wallet Bucky hands him anyway. “This yours or mine?”

Bucky scoffs. “Yours.”

Steve smiles, fishing out forty bucks. “For your trouble.” It’s not like Steve’s gonna have much use for cash now; not if he’s going back to Wakanda.

The guy stares at him, unsure. He’s cautious, smart. That makes Steve trust him more. “No catch,” Steve says. “You really in a position to turn down hard cash?”

“Your friend was generous enough.”

Steve flashes him the rest of his bills. “More where that came from if you come back tomorrow with breakfast.”

The guy looks at Steve, looks at the cash, then looks at Steve again. “That’s all I have,” Steve tells him. “I’m offering it freely. Don’t bother coming back with anyone to raid the place, you won’t find anything.”

“Plus his boyfriend is armed,” Bucky says behind him.

Steve smiles. “Plus my boyfriend is armed.”

Against the odds, that makes the guy relax. “Forty now,” Steve says, “rest with breakfast.”

He looks at Steve sidelong, but slowly reaches a hand to take the cash. “What’s your order?”

“You private enterprise?”

“Me and my wife.”

Steve nods. “Whatever you make is fine. Enough for four. Hour doesn’t matter, I don’t think we’ll sleep much. What’s your name?”

“Tino.”

“Thanks, Tino. You don’t come tomorrow, no harm, no foul. I’m taking our arrangement on faith. You gonna screw me over?”

“You gonna call me in if I come back?”

“Never.” 

Tino points at him like they’re old friends. “We’re even.” He backs down the hall. “Your boyfriend like pancakes?”

“I like pancakes,” Bucky says huskily.

Tino flashes a thumbs-up and disappears around the corner. Steve smiles as he slips back into the room, locking the door behind him. “That was nice.”

Bucky's holding Steve’s gun judgmentally away from him at arm’s length.

“Supply was limited,” says Steve, rolling his eyes. “Come eat.”

“No wonder you hate guns.”

“What’s wrong with Smith & Wesson?”

“There really nothing better?”

“Take it up with Natasha, she’s the one who gave it to me.”

“Jesus. Supplies _really_ must be limited.” Bucky puts it down bedside as Steve unpacks their meal. “Open carry, huh?”

“More or less obligatory out there.” Steve slips a potato wedge into his mouth. God, he hasn’t felt this hungry in so long. “Especially if you’re underground. That guy was probably better armed than us. It’s risky for both of us for him to come back, but cash is hard to come by and grounders can’t use credit in the legitimate world anymore.”

“Grounders—like underground?”

“Yeah.”

“Delivering food is an underground activity?”

Steve looks at him, asking without asking if he really wants to know.

Bucky doesn’t reply at first. Arranging the pillows against the headboard—beautiful in that tank; God, he looks young—Bucky leans back with a sigh. “People dying?” he asks, taking the food Steve hands him.

“We’ll never know how many. Cities are dangerous places these days. Rural areas aren’t much better. We’re lucky Wakanda shared their cloaking tech or the Avengers compound would’ve been moved in on a while ago. It looks destroyed from the air.”

“Smart.”

“Trial by fire.”

“What’s ‘you gonna call me in’ about?”

“People are either registered with the government or they’re not. Registration’s no advantage; they take age, location, gender…” Steve rolls his eyes. “Ethnicity, sexuality, religion…”

“So it’s a regis _try_.”

“Half the world disappears, what do you do? If you’re government, keep track of people better.”

Bucky gives a slow, tired laugh.

“You want the benefits of security and infrastructure, you register. You don’t want to be eyeballed every waking moment, you don’t. Lots of new fences cropping up these days. You want half a shot of surviving if security decides you’re doing something that puts the remaining dregs of society in danger? You better be the one to shoot first.”

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“The Cataclysm happened, alien abduction—the closest answer to the truth—was somehow was the furthest thought from people’s minds. Anything weird became suspect instead. Theories range from terrorism, abduction, drugs, cell phones…”

“ _Cell phones_?”

“Whatever suits the propaganda of the day. Technology’s limited to registered citizens now; no cell phones or internet for the rest of us. You register, you get government-sponsored devices that let you communicate.”

“Guess they probably track everything sent and received.”

Steve nods tiredly, eating another potato wedge. “Meanwhile, grounders are back to the messenger pigeon. Old phones still technically work; they just get no service.”

“How many of those?”

“Messenger pigeons?”

Bucky throws a napkin at him. “Grounders, smartass.”

“No idea,” Steve says, smiling. “Hundreds of thousands in cities at least, but it’s hard to get a real scope. About half the population bought into the regulation from the start. People think the government’s keeping them safe, gonna protect them from the next time this happens.” He shakes his head. “It’s hard to know what’s really going on across the country anymore. The United States doesn’t functionally exist. Underground’s got connections with itself, but when everything is manual, it’s hard to stay in touch, build networks. Government decimated the resistance pretty thoroughly. Thanos set us up; authoritarianism knocked us down.”

Bucky watches him explain with pained, sorry eyes. It’s strange for them to be here, eighty years after starting this fight. Forced to reckon with having lost.

Steve takes the unwrapped burger Bucky hands him and sits down, food spread out between them. It’s a feast. Natasha ordered well. Maybe it’s the artificial food Steve’s been eating for days, or maybe it’s something else, but every bite tastes better than it has any right to. Steve keeps finding himself making noise, trying to hand things to Bucky to taste.

“It’s decent,” Bucky says, smiling slow. 

“It’s real food.”

“You not get a lot of that?”

“Not outside the Avengers compound.” Sadness pulls at its edges of Bucky's expression, and Steve forgets about the food just like that. He watches Bucky eat a minute, warmth radiating out from his core. 

“How is, um.” Steve stretches a leg to sit flush against Bucky’s, foot caressing against his thigh. “Post-Thanos world? Whatever you’re calling it.”

“Post-fissure.”

“Mm.”

“Not sure how to answer that.”

“More things you can’t say?” 

“No, it’s just… fuck, I mean, it’s Earth in 2020. A lot more normal than what you’re going through, but bullshit enough. I don’t know where to start. I guess it’s what you’d expect; Hydra and SHIELD have amped up their turf war—”

Steve drops his plastic fork. “Hydra— _what_?”

“Well, not in so many words. Agents of the org formerly known as SHIELD tried to form an unaffiliated spy organization to work against institutional corruption.”

“Uh.”

“Yeah, it’s gone about as well as you’d expect. They call themselves H.E.L.D.—Homeland Enforcement of Liberty and Democracy.”

Steve stares. Bucky nods. “Certain Avengers who shall remain nameless keep affiliating themselves with them, giving their effort a fighting chance. Don’t ask me if that’s a good thing or not, but… hell, I dunno. Maybe it is making some kind of difference. If not for H.E.L.D., I don’t know who’d be fighting corruption in any meaningful way apart from us independents.”

Steve’s not sure where to start. “Is… Stark funding them?”

“Partly. You’d be surprised how many bigwigs are willing to keep an org like that afloat. To be fair, H.E.L.D.’s had some successes; they exposed the Raft, blew up the place, raised an international incident hearing that ostensibly shut that shit down once and for all. I’m not dumb enough to think a secret prison or five didn’t crop right up after, but Sam wasn’t about to—”

Steve takes a breath. It must have been sharper than he meant; Bucky looks at him, cutting off. 

The moment hangs horribly in the air.

“No Wilson, huh?” Bucky asks, rough.

Steve shakes his head. He opens his mouth to explain, but finds that he can’t. “How is he?” he asks instead, swallowing. 

“He’s good. He’s… stupid.” Bucky fights a smile. That seems like a good sign. “He’s, um... he's been a big help. He's kinda been my only consistent ally along the way. Never questioned how important getting to you was. He's been there since day one with this thing, keeping half an eye on it even when he was busy with other things. Stuck with the plan when most others had given up on it. He’s been really solid. I’m grateful.”

“Yeah, that… sounds like Sam.”

Travelling with Natasha has been second-nature to Steve, but there’s not a day that goes by that he doesn’t notice the long silences, the punctuated pause where Sam’s laughter should be. Sometimes Steve looks over to an empty space and imagines Sam there, unpacking a bag, talking about where they’re going to eat. He always looked up the best food locales before they landed someplace new, and never slowed down when telling Steve and Nat all about it. Sam somehow turned hunting alien weaponry into a vacation in fleeting moments like those.

Everything feels so heavy now. Every step he and Natasha take, every decision they make. Every conversation they’re forced to have without Sam weighing the state of the destination’s beaches—there's the weight of the fact that there used to be three of them. 

Every day, they feel the loss. The world is so much heavier without him.

“You based out of Wakanda?” Steve redirects, trying to find his appetite.

Bucky snakes his fingers around Steve's calf, giving it a loose squeeze. “No. They turfed us out of there within a couple days. We showed up at Avengers HQ not long after Stark and company come down from Titan. It was a bracing few weeks trying to figure out who was gonna stay where, but we worked it out.”

“You been in New York since?”

“Traveled a bit,” Bucky sighs, “sort of, I mean, all in the service of getting here. San Fran, Nepal... London, briefly. The mirror dimension, you know.”

“Sure,” Steve deadpans.

“But, yeah. Upstate is…” He shudders. “Home. I guess.”

Steve huffs his amusement. “Horrors.”

“Suburbia, Steve.”

“It’s not suburbia.”

“I live at a country club. It’s something.”

Steve smiles fondly. “Okay.”

“Survive a world war, Cold War, and the battle of Thanos, and you wind up in a white-walled climate-controlled utopia using _Stark tech_ every day. I’ve come full fucking circle, and not in a way I like.”

“Yeah, sounds really grim.”

“My life’s off the rails. I gotta get back to basics.”

“Basics." Steve stabs at his food. “Like… farming?”

“Oh, no. That was a stopgap, a recumbency.”

“Hard work for recumbency.”

“You know I never meant to stay out of it, out of… things. Not for long, not forever. I've got too many 'talents,' my eye on too much turbulence to return to—that.”

A pang of sadness. Steve isn't surprised, but he'd hoped for something better: an enjoyment of the Starktech, maybe. Steve's not sure what he wanted for Bucky that's not what Bucky chose. “So what’s next? Join up with H.E.L.D., pry loose another Raft?”

Bucky doesn’t answer for a while. When Steve looks up, he's staring at the centre of the bed.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says quietly. “I’ve been working on this so long, I haven’t given much thought to…” He looks up, blinking the shadows from his eyes. “I guess I got no idea what comes next."

Now it’s Steve’s turn to weigh a comforting hand at Bucky’s leg. Bucky puts his hand over it, and they sit there a while, a matching pair: grounding each other through a sense of loss neither one of them's willing to name.

Bucky does feel the same loss. Steve knows that now.

“Where am I, Buck?” he asks quietly. “In your world?”

Bucky shakes his head, hand withdrawing. “Don’t ask me that.”

“I’m asking.”

“Well, don’t.”

“If it happens after... it’s not like I’m gonna affect my own outcome here.”

“Oh, you know that, huh?”

“I’m just—”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says shortly. His tone’s clipped enough that Steve can’t tell if he’s lying or not. “I... guess I haven’t seen you in a while. That doesn’t mean I know what happened to you.”

“What... does that mean?”

“Stop asking. I mean it.”

“Bucky—where do you _think_ I am?”

Bucky sets his jaw and stares.

“If I’m not there for you—”

“Let it go,” Bucky says. “I won’t be the one to condemn you. Don’t ask.”

Steve can only stare, uncowed. “Condemn me,” he says slowly, “to what?”

Bucky moves to leave. 

Steve grabs his wrist as it retreats from the bed—more a reflex than anything. An instinct, terrified.

Bucky sets his fiery gaze upon him. 

“Don’t walk away," Steve says.

“I’m taking a break.” Steve still doesn’t want to let go, but Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not _leaving_ , birdbrain, I’m going to the bathroom. I don’t want to spend this time arguing. Cool it. Don’t force the issue.”

“But—”

Bucky cuts out a growl, then presses a mean, angry kiss to Steve’s knuckles where they've grabbed at his hand. “Stop pushing on the bruise,” Bucky says as Steve lets go in shock. “I already told you my reasons for not explaining things. Put two and two together and drop the fucking bone.” Bucky drags a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he sets off toward the bathroom. “You and your goddamn ideas…”

“Bucky,” Steve says, strained. “Buck... we’re owed more than this.”

Slowly, with his head tilted to the ceiling, Bucky turns around and finally meets Steve’s gaze. “Here’s what I think,” he says, stern and withdrawn. “I think that this, right now, in this shitty motel room at the end of the world—I think we forced it. I think you and me are so stubborn and stupid that we keep poking holes in the universe just to see each other through. Turns out you and me can each die twice over and it’s still not enough, but forget running out of chances, Steve—eventually we’re just gonna run out of _time_. Did you ever think that _this_ might be our happy ending?” Bucky's breathing hard, with passion and restraint. “Right here, right now? You and me on our last day, making love until it hurts, shouting at each other over the same damn things—”

“It’s not enough,” Steve says over him. Bucky could be making all the sense in the world and Steve would still feel it on a cellular level: they are owed more than this. “It’s not enough.”

Bucky turns again, hand at his brow. “You’re goddamn right it’s not,” he says, and slams the bathroom door behind him. When he speaks again, it’s muffled by more than just the wood. “But when do we ever get what we want?”

  


  


  


  


The shower turns on. Steve’s most of the way through wrapping up the food when Bucky—

_—has him. He holds Steve down with a hand in his hair,_  
_bruising fingers at his hip, and Steve could die happy. He could die right here,_  
_hands rent in the sheets, sparks felt from his eyes to his toes every time Bucky_  
_pushes in, every time, in the room’s pitch black, he's edged closer to ruin just by feeling him._  
_He could die happy and Bucky—_

—drags Steve close with a hand in his shirt when he steps near, takes his time undressing him  
as the water runs hot behind. Steve can’t help but think about it, how the water’s running out,  
it always runs out, how—

_—his knees keep slipping back. Bucky’s gripping his ass with one hot palm_  
_and the arch of his back isn’t high enough. He wants more. It isn't enough,_  
_it's too much, it—_

—isn't long until the room is covered in steam, and not long after that until  
Steve's gasping for breath under the shower’s hot stream with Bucky’s mouth around his dick. Christ,  
he feels good, he feels so good. Steve’s hand wrenches in his hair, Bucky—

  
_—sinking his teeth into Steve’s shoulder, putting his lips by his ear, sliding in good and_  
_snug. “You feel me, Rogers?” Bucky asks in the dark, buried right to the hilt, and God,_  
_Steve feels him. He feels everything, only him, Steve feels every blessed inch—_

—and Bucky kisses him slow, devoted, the taste of Steve’s come still on his tongue.  
Bucky leaves Steve there to watch him slip out of the room and into the dark, and Steve knows  
he’s liable to get cornered the second he steps out of the shower. He knows  
Bucky aims to make him forget they’re short on time by physical means.  
God, Steve wants it. He wants him. What Steve wants could fill a book.  
He readies himself, takes his precious time, makes sure of—

Then the hot water falters, and darkness falls.

  


_“Feel me,” Bucky says again; and Steve does. He can’t see anything in the dark, can only feel him,_  
_it’s the sweetest oblivion; Bucky’s the only thing. Braced around him, over him, in him, oh_  
_God, oh God, Steve thinks, “oh God.” Bucky starts to move and wrenches it out of him louder._  
_“Oh, **God** ”—his throat burns, fingers clenched in the sheets. Steve wants; he’s getting. He’s getting _  
_nothing but him, all of him, everything. Overwhelmed, overcome, God please, Steve thinks, please_  
_let this moment last—_

  


  


  


  


  


The power coming back wakes Steve out of a doze. 

He doesn’t remember drifting off, couldn’t say when Bucky got underneath him. He remembers pressing his fingers into Bucky’s hips, half-unconscious, compelling him not to go. Steve looks up from where his face was planted in Bucky’s chest to see Bucky smiling down at him, combing his fingers through Steve’s damp hair. 

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” Bucky says, “but you weren’t hearing it.”

“I dragged you,” Steve says stupidly.

Bucky hums his agreement. Steve remembers now—bodily pulling Bucky back across the bed until he was right in the middle. 

“Sorry.” He collapses back over Bucky’s chest. 

“I forgot how much you’ll come,” Bucky says, quiet.

“No you didn’t.”

“No,” Bucky agrees, after a pause. “I didn’t.”

The outage had lasted less than two hours, by Steve’s estimations. He’d slammed off the shower when the generator powered down, and Bucky’d wasted no time in seducing him in the dark.

Steve cranes his neck to look at him, squinting against the light. With his hair down, a shadow of stubble forming in the hollows of his cheeks, Bucky’s starting to look like…the Bucky he’d lost.

It’s strange that he keeps thinking of things that way. Steve sinks his fingers into Bucky’s hips, burrowing his face back against his ribs. Bucky’s fingers, his left, massage his scalp with ardent affection. A perfect gentility. Steve lets his eyes drift closed again, lets Bucky make him feel alright for a while.

“Prosthetic treating you alright?” Steve mumbles eventually, half-asleep. His fingers move with such precision; he takes strands of Steve’s long hair between his thumb and forefingers, rubbing the ends together. Steve hadn’t had much experience with Bucky wearing a prosthetic when they haven’t been fighting. Maybe he’s used to this much control.

“Uh… yeah. Best one I've had yet. No trouble in two years. Pretty light, feels like an arm.” He lets go of Steve’s hair long enough to flex his hand. Steve hears no sound; no servos like the old steel. “It’s not like I forget, but it doesn’t bother me.”

“That’s good.”

A long pause. “Do you, um…”

Steve raises his head, but Bucky shoves a hand in his hair, smothering him back against his chest. “Forget it, go to sleep.”

“I’m awake.”

“You’re talking in slow motion.”

“No, I’m awake.” Steve prods at him until Bucky clicks his tongue.

“Do you think,” Bucky says slowly, mortified eyes rolling to the ceiling, “it looks worse, than it did.” He gestures loosely at his shoulder, where Hydra's steel grafts against vibranian metal. “When it was… y’know, if you weren’t familiar with it—would it be jarring? More than before.” 

Now Steve does feel awake. He lifts his head, raising a hand to brace gently at Bucky’s prosthetic shoulder. “It looks fine,” he says honestly. He traces a delicate line where the metals meet, watching Bucky’s face for discomfort. Only a thin outline of Hydra's old instalment can be seen where it digs under Bucky’s skin. “Why would it look worse than it did?”

“I dunno. Before, I kinda thought people would know what they were getting… y’know, because it was Hydra’s. Like I was. But this... was a gift. It changes things. Wakanda was good to me, gave it to me as a symbol of good will, so I—I dunno.” He sighs, gesturing again at the graft. “Scars are pretty harsh, that’s all. Especially when no one’s expecting them. Don’t know if this prosthetic softens my image, or if it matters that it was given to me in kindness. If I let people see this, how do they know to react?" He winces. "It’s complicated.”

Steve watches him, chin on his chest. Listening to him talk about the balance he’s striking, the way he’s trying to live, he’s starting to understand Bucky’s haircut—the partial buzz, the cleanshaven look, the way he keeps his hair long all the same. Tie it back and he looks modern, approachable, part of this world. Let it out again and it becomes… what it was. Something Bucky’s carried forward from the days of the Soldier for some reason Steve’s never understood. 

Bucky sounds strong. He sounds confident, able, more sure of himself. But there are things he’s still grappling with; Steve sees that now. Bucky holds two identities in him and hasn’t the first idea how to carry them both.

“Let me ask you something,” Steve says, pulling himself up on his elbows. “Why keep your hair long at all?”

Steve had expected him to be avoidant, to shut his eyes or try to shy away, but instead he looks right at him. Bucky thinks a while, then scrapes his knuckles through the brush of Steve’s beard. “Why’d you grow this?”

“Lack of opportunity to shave.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky says with a smile. “What’s the real answer?”

“I was under cover.”

“Bull,” he says slowly, “shit.” 

Steve fights off a grin. “Alright, Buck, what do you think it is?”

“I want you to say it.”

Steve stares. Bucky stares right back. Suddenly Steve’s struck with the debilitating realization that he’s the only one in the world who knows Bucky’s just as stubborn as him.

“Bit of a fuck-you to Captain America,” Steve admits. 

Bucky nods, smiling crookedly. “I knew you got to hating him.”

“No, I didn’t. That’s the truth,” he replies to Bucky’s raised eyebrows. “I hate how others used the name. Around the time of the Accords, I was starting to realize that I didn’t represent… anything. The America we knew was gone a long time. In fact, what I was representing was the lion’s share of what you and me had fought _against_. And people were seeing that, people outside America, the people we were pretending to save. ‘America’ didn’t mean freedom anymore, it meant imperialism. Defense at the _cost_ of freedom, of lives, of reason. Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq—everything you and me missed—all dummy wars waged in defense of an ideology, which is exactly what we went fighting against. You and me died, and America went right on chasing concepts rather than rights.” Steve shakes his head. “I was another one of those, another concept to weaponize. I wasn’t anything real. Not what they turned me into.”

“You were real,” Bucky murmurs, knuckling gently at his jaw.

“You know—I was. For some people, I was too real. What my name did to them... Y'know, I'll never forget this. We landed in Sokovia, I dunno, five years ago now. There my portrait was, graffiti’d on the wall. Big moment, right? Turbulent state painting symbols of freedom. Only painted right over it was ‘Fašista’ in red.”

Bucky inhales through his teeth.

“Yeah,” Steve says, taking his hand. “So there were plenty of reasons to change my image.”

Bucky studies Steve’s face, fingers scratching at his beard, like he’s getting to know it. It’s longer than Steve kept it when they visited in Wakanda; too long, really. Far past unkempt. “I hated my hair,” Bucky mutters, still touching him. “For a long time. Hydra never cut it, never tied it back. Wouldn’t let me show a preference, so didn’t even let me touch it. Couldn’t slick it out of my eyes even to the detriment of my work, it was that much about neglect and control. 

“I was stateside for… I don’t know,” he sighs, “five months, I guess, after you and me threw down in DC. I hated it, the whole rag. Started hacking it off with anything I could find—knife, scissors, didn’t matter. It was never a very good job; I always cut it while, y’know, screaming and so on. Always wound up breaking into a barber’s shop overnight, buzzing it all off in the dark. Just so it’d be a consistent length. That I didn’t want to scalp myself seemed like kind of a good sign.”

Bucky’s never talked about this era; not with Steve. When Bucky reminisced with him in Wakanda, it was always hesitant, always about Brooklyn or the war—things Steve could corroborate. Never this.

“It grows fast,” Bucky continues. “You know that. Worse since the serum. Always grew out to a medium length in a matter of weeks. I’d cut it badly, cycle repeats. Then when I went over to Europe, I spent a couple weeks on a cruise ship bolstering my coffers, trying not to get noticed. Washed up in Portugal with a bunch of rich stiffs’ money and a sudden aversion to fleabag motels. Figured Hydra wouldn’t look for me in one of Lisbon’s finer establishments, but I’d barely slept on the way over, so I basically stayed alert long enough to find a place, take a shower, and collapse into bed. Twelve hours later I woke up, took one look in the mirror, and thought, ‘Jesus, he looks nice.’ Took me a second to figure out I was looking at myself. I’d spent the last two weeks taking care of my hair just to blend in with the crowd, and it started looking so nice that I…”

Bucky cuts off. He flashes Steve a thin smile. “It's stupid, but I cried about it. Stood there looking at myself in the mirror, feeling sick because I’d thought something nice about myself. Not only myself; about the hair I hated. I was half-asleep, not thinking right, and it just slipped out. But it changed things. My hair wasn’t Hydra’s anymore, it was mine. Something I could take care of when they never did, something I could set aside a couple hours for. Started being the first thing I did to detox from a long journey, or when things went south, to get back to some feeling of humanity. Just to have something about myself to take care of with tangible results. Think it was the first part of me I got back.” He looks at Steve, candid. “I have to carry around a lot of the shit they gave me. But this one is mine.”

It takes Steve a while to brave voicing his thoughts. “A fuck-you to the soldier they made you,” he says finally, voice tight.

Bucky gives that smile again—not quite a smile. Withdrawn and grim. “If only they could see us now," he mutters, giving a sigh. "Growing all this hair all by ourselves.”

Steve huffs a laugh, rubbing his beard against Bucky’s flank. “What would Phillips think?”

“Phillips would be too busy pitching a fit at the queers under his supervision to care too much about the hair.”

“You think he didn’t know?”

“There’s no way.”

“He might’ve. We looked the fighting part, what else did he care?”

“Yeah, you in your onesie and me in my non-regulation duds. We were fitting right in, you and me.”

“It was an America onesie,” Steve reasons, and Bucky throws his head and laughs. “Beyond that I don’t think he cared. Besides, I don’t know what else they expected me to fight in. That thing fit infinitely better than anything regulation.”

“I honestly can’t believe you’ve ever worn anything else.”

“Jumpsuit of justice for all occasions.”

“Hey, that’s a good slogan. Ever tried to capitalize on that?”

“Well, that’s why I got into this whole thing, Buck. The royalties.”

“They never paid you for your likeness?”

“What, with all those contracts I never signed?”

Bucky grunts. “You should sue.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

And like that, the moment fades. The world outside is barren of such frivolous concerns.

“No one’ll have a problem with you who’s worth your time,” Steve tells him, gripping softly at his prosthetic. He’s only telling him what Bucky used to say all the time—greasing him up for their next double date. And he’d been right; Bucky never had a problem with him. Bucky’s always been worth his time. “You’ll give 'em what-for if they don’t treat you right anyway.”

“Don’t read into this,” Bucky says. “I was just wondering.”

“Well, you’re gorgeous to me.”

“That right? Is that what that look is all over your face every time you look at me? I thought I smelled.”

“Nope. That’s love, pal.”

Bucky pushes his face away.

“I can tell you more often if you—”

“Please don’t.”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Steve says, and Bucky lovingly hits him in the face with a pillow.

  


  


  


  


Seconds pass through their fingers like sifting sand. Precious instants passing that they’ll never get back. They eat; they use each other as props, entangling themselves in new ways, always touching. They listen to the radio a while, though Bucky cuts that off fast. It’s too bleak for them, from their oasis motal. They’re on a break from the world for eleven more hours.

Bucky tries to remember the latest _Times_ crossword, giving clues for Steve to try and guess. Only trouble is Steve’s been useless with a crossword since 1944. “‘Boyfriend jeans’ means _what_?” Steve shouts at him, leaving Bucky barking with laughter.

“It’s a style of cut, like a V-neck sweater.”

“Who's gonna be wearing a V-neck pair of jeans in public?” Steve asks, making Bucky lose it all over again. “You need buttons, a zipper. Is there just no fly? Are they boyfriend jeans because you can just reach down and give your boyfriend a handjob anytime?”

“You know what? That’s exactly right. I need a pair of these now.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Steve groans into Bucky’s stomach. “I had a hard enough time with internet cookies, there’s gotta be a limit on these things. Boyfriend jeans are just jeans, a spade’s a spade.”

“I’m taking this home, Steve, I’m making this big. Boyfriend jeans are jeans your boyfriend wears to get regular handies, I love it.”

They cover differences in their history. Clint alone in Iowa feverishly building cabins for hundreds of Asgardians; Clint retired and bored, cheerfully hosting anyone who needs to get at SHIELD’s files and begging for scoops on the action. Shuri, Queen and head scientist, burdened and overworked by all of her duties; Shuri slyly bantering with Stark over the best way to get through the quantum realm while T’Challa takes care of the lion’s share of bureaucracy.

Stark and Pepper got married, according to Bucky. He wound up getting a last-minute invite in a fit of goodwill after some landmark event with the device, but declined to attend on account of not knowing how to comport himself at crowd-heavy celebrations.

“What’d you do instead?”

“Work.” Bucky nods toward the blueprints.

Steve follows his gaze. He extricates himself reluctantly from Bucky’s arms to grab the plans off the desk. “How’s this thing work, anyway?” 

Bucky sighs, but rolls to his knees to explain. “It’s complicated. This thing is basically Scott Lang’s Ant-Man suit distilled into a handheld device—with a twist.” Bucky looks at him pointedly. “It only works on you and me.”

“Why?”

Bucky winces. “Ah—how much do you know about the serum?”

“Oh… damn it.”

“Yeah. Basically we had Thor get the gauntlet from Nidavellir—you know about the gauntlet, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then Thor’s dwarf friend broke down the engineering stuff on how to make something stone-wielding. It took some doing, but we got him to make it for us. Bracelet channels the serum’s energy, like the gauntlet channels the stones.” 

“Well, there’s a problem right off. Eitri’s dead in this dimension.”

Bucky doesn’t even flinch. “We thought of that. Stark left instructions on how to make it. Thor alive?”

“Yeah.”

“He got his Stormbreaker thing, can get to Nidavellir?”

“Yeah. Actually, Rocket’s there now, prepping the place for Asgardian colonization.”

“That happened in our timeline too, that’s smart. The important thing is that you get there. Thor says he’s strong enough to work the forge, it should be fine. But this whole thing—” he taps on the blueprints—“only works thanks to the weaponized power of the serum… two ways. Channeling the serum energy is what got me between dimensions in the first place, and it’ll presumably get you back in time, once you figure out how. But there’s also no shrinking down to size without the serum. Stark programmed the device to recognize the serum’s chemical signature in our cells as an entanglement field. It does the same thing Lang’s suit does, only without the suit. No suit, no serum, no shrinkage.”

“Why not just make another suit?”

“Stymied by Pym. He won’t hand over the suit tech, and Lang doesn’t know enough about it to help us figure it out.”

“Pym would thwart an attempt to save the world?”

Bucky looks grim. “He hates Stark that much.”

Steve whistles low. “Had a major beef with old Howard,” Bucky goes on. “Actually left SHIELD over it, back when. Thinks Tony’s no better, that he’d mass-weaponize the tech like Howard planned. Lang would’ve given us his suit, but it didn’t solve all our problems—like how to get it to you without stranding me. Stark wound up backward-engineering this design based on Howard’s notes, Eitri’s advice, and what limited info Lang could give us.”

“Wow.”

“So it had to be me coming through, just like it’s gotta be you going back.” Something seems to hit Bucky then; he shakes his head, folding up the plans again. “Do me a favour and put these somewhere safe,” he says, handing them over, “so I don’t lose my mind about it.”

“Not likely to forget them,” Steve replies, but he takes them anyway.

“Like you didn’t forget the ticket book for the World Fair and I didn’t have to drag the whole family back up to Queens a second time?”

“You ever gonna let that go?”

Bucky presses a smiling kiss to Steve’s forehead when Steve slips back into bed with him. “Let’s just say it stuck in my mind.”

  


  


  


  


Steve doesn’t want to waste time asleep. He wants to talk to Bucky about anything, everything, all day long. But drift becomes inevitable. They’re too exhausted to welcome the sun.

Steve wakes some indeterminate amount of time later, Bucky in his arms. He’s got one arm slung around Bucky's hip, the other snaked under his ribs. Their fingers have stayed entwined through sleep—grip loose, but sure. Bucky’s breath is slow and even, his skin radiating heat. 

He’s only ever this warm when he’s asleep anymore. It used to be the other way around—Steve always cold and Bucky the furnace, gathering Steve’s hands in his, trying to press feeling back into his fingers. It’s funny how things change, the differences between them—Steve made warm by the serum, Bucky colder compared.

Steve wants to look at the clock, but he doesn’t dare move. The light in the room is low and grey. Still morning; probably early. They might have six hours left.

The thought of waking Bucky unfurls miserably in him, but God, Steve wants him. He wants to hear his voice, read his body’s tells. Bucky pliant in his arms tells a story of its own, and rousing him, depriving him of a second of this fleeting peace, would border on criminal.

The moment turns sensory. The feel of Bucky, the smell of him—Steve noses behind his ear, scanning his lips across the line of his hair. It’s both strange and comforting to see it so short. Now and again Steve or the barber used to cut Bucky’s hair too close and Steve would run his hand unhappily over the short brush, always preferring when there was something to grab. Now, after all this time, it strikes him as familiar. The distant and recent pasts wrapped together to make Bucky's present form.

“Stop smelling me,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve’s sorry he woke him, but not for very long. “I’m not smelling you.” Though he was.

Bucky reaches back, pressing Steve’s thigh close. The erection Steve sprung simply from loving him slides up against his back. “Say good morning before you start loving on me,” Bucky murmurs, head craning.

“Good morning,” Steve says as he kisses him; then he sets about making his intentions clear.

They make long, sweet love, Steve fucking him from behind good and long. He folds his body over Bucky’s, nudging his knee into the crook of his, telling him a thousand lovedrunk things until Bucky’s a stuttering, pinned-down mess.

Breakfast comes not long later, just like Tino promised. Fresh fruit—an orange and a nectarine—very nearly sends Steve into raptures. “They must have secret trees,” Steve tells Bucky through a mouthful of orange. Bucky grins at him, refusing his share. “That or they’re from the inside. A hundred wasn’t enough.”

“An orange is worth a hundred bucks?”

“It’s worth twice that. We got _two_ fruit, Bucky. Ah, God. I gotta save the rest for Natasha.”

The hours pass. Five slips to four; four slips to three. They exchange lazy, overstimulated handjobs while murmuring sweet nothings—drawing the minutes out, unwilling to stop. Time still slips on. Bucky throws his shirt over the red glare of the clock, but Steve keeps nudging it aside. He wants to see it coming. He’s never done well with problems he couldn’t look in the face.

“You got something on your mind,” Bucky says, when they’ve been silent a while. The more time passes, the more their compulsion to hold seems to grow. 

Steve gives a slow sigh. Bucky could confirm the things he’s thinking about, but he’s said enough times he doesn’t want to fight.

“I’m not trying to push,” Steve finally says.

Bucky presses his face to Steve’s chest and groans.

“But something doesn’t add up. You say I’m not there with you—”

Bucky hits his forehead repeatedly against Steve’s sternum. “Forget I asked.”

It’s too late for that now. “You said I told you to come here on this date, but you also said we’ve had two deaths apiece. By my count, Buck, I’ve only died once.”

Bucky swears bitterly, head bowing. “Thought I was so careful.”

“We both know the serum’s made from the Tesseract. My guess is that whatever I did to kill Thanos and destroy the stones caught me in it too. Am I wrong?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Steve can feel his heart trying its damndest to pound out of his chest.

“Then how did you know to come?” Steve asks again.

It takes Bucky a while to get his body moving again. Steve ignores the shake in his limbs when he does. “Let me think.”

“You don’t know.”

“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. But I have to think about this, make sure I’m not screwing anything up.”

Steve waits. He presses his thumb to Bucky’s hip, pushing a little deep. Grounding them both. They’re both still right here.

“You leave a recording,” Bucky finally says, quiet. If not for the contrasting silence, Steve’s not sure he would’ve heard him at all. “With instructions. On Shuri’s console, before you… show up on the battlefield. You explain about the Cataclysm, that you went back in time to stop it. That I come through dimensions to give you the plans.” Bucky takes an unsteady breath and lets it out, hand scanning across Steve’s ribs. “That’s why my information is limited, Steve. All I got was a two-minute message with what you decided to tell me before—” Bucky falters—“before you had to go.”

Steve wraps his arms tight around him. “I’m sorry,” he says—then tighter still when Bucky burrows close. “God, Bucky. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I don’t ever want to hear that shit from you, Steve—I know better. You don’t mean it. If you could have done it another way, you would have. You going back in time to save trillions of lives... it’s the single most insane thing I’ve ever heard, and the most fucking predictable. You hearing me? You’re breaking the laws of physics to do this. You can't let a thing lie so bad that you’re breaking the world just to fix it. Not only are you insane enough to _try_ , but—Jesus—you actually do it. That fucks me up. It fucks me up the way that only you can. Only you.” He looks up, accusing. “Did it even occur to you not to try?”

“No,” says Steve—quiet, but sure.

Bucky nods, like he knew. He probably did. “I should be with you," he says with a cracking voice. "I should’ve been all along.”

“Why can’t you be?”

He hadn’t meant to ask it; it just came out, he hadn’t thought it through. 

“You really gonna ask that of me?” asks Bucky, voice low. He doesn't meet Steve's eye. “To stay with the outcome you’re trying to undo, to give up the world you fought to create? Give up friends and infrastructure for a world of war, where the United States has been replaced by a registry?”

“No.”

Something lingers on the tail of the word—a caveat left unsaid. Steve regrets that, too. He regrets even more that Bucky heard it. 

“Just,” Bucky grits out, pained, tilting his head back. “When you’re trying to track these things down, doing whatever you have to do to save five trillion fucking lives—think of me having your back. Would you? All my life… all I’ve been doing is trying to have your back.” Bucky’s fingers drag through his hair from his brow backwards—a gesture so ancient, so intimately familiar, that Steve’s heart skips a beat. “If I’m not right next to you, I’m out there somewhere wishing I was. Don’t you forget that. Don’t forget it for a second.”

The way Bucky looks at him breaks Steve’s heart. “I don’t want,” Steve begins, but his voice cracks hard. “To do this without you.”

“I don’t want you to do this at all.”

“You’re everything to me,” Steve says, thumb at his mouth. “Have I said it enough?”

“You said it too much. Just because I’m—”

“Am I gonna have another chance to tell you? You’re the world to me, Bucky. I’d tear it down just to get to you.”

“Don’t. Don’t you—”

“No, you’re too late. I already did it. If I’m supposed to carry the thought of you out there somewhere watching my back, you can carry that.”

Steve feels like an idiot for crying when this isn’t even a proper goodbye, but the feeling lessens a bit when Bucky wipes his own eyes against Steve’s chest.

“I was never worth that,” Bucky says nasally. 

Steve shakes his head. “You were worth it every time. You still are. I’d do every bit of it again.”

“Well, you will,” Bucky says; and for all it breaks his heart, Steve can’t find it in him to apologize for that.

  


  


  


  


"I gotta go.”

Steve’s not ready. His hands tighten around Bucky—a reflex he regrets.

"Just a warning,” Bucky says at his neck. “Time's short.”

  


  


"I gotta go.”

“No.”

“Five minutes, Steve." He swallows hard. "I don't want to do this alone.”

  


  


“I gotta go," Bucky says against his hands.

Steve reaches out anyway. Bucky ducks him, just out of his grasp. He doesn’t look at Steve as he walks across the room, slowly picking up his clothing where it’d been strewn across the floor.

Steve watches him dress. Bucky's always been the strong one, always willing to make the call. They used to say Steve was led by his convictions—but Bucky's convictions have mattered more. Every tough call Steve’s made since the war, every time he’s wondered about doing the right thing, it’s been Bucky’s moral compass that he’s called up to judge. When to push forward. When to withdraw. 

Bucky isn’t hurried. He still has a sniper's patience, a dancer's grace. Steve thinks, watching him, of making the device as it’s rendered—of meeting Bucky on his side of the world. They could have another day like this one; it could give them more time. 

But then Bucky shoots him a devastated glance, and Steve realizes what he’d be doing. Bucky’d told him off the top what the consequences were, and they’d both decided the heartbreak was worth it. They got their last day. It’d be on Steve, then, to have to go home. Steve might be able to survive this goodbye, but he isn’t sure he could survive another. Not when this is what he’d have to come back to.

The corners of Bucky’s mouth press thin, dread tight in his shoulders. It’s only now, in the final moments of his presence, that Steve finally sees the Bucky he remembers—the pain in his body, the way it forces him to move. The burden of leaving has turned him into the man who’d slipped out between Steve’s fingers as ash. 

Steve won't leave him to do this alone. He rolls out of bed, pulling his sweatpants off the floor. 

“You don’t have to,” Bucky says, but Steve waves him off. He pulls a fresh shirt out of the drawer, watches Bucky pull on his jacket. Steve gets it on him now, having gotten to know the balance he bears. God, Steve’s so damn proud of him—just to see him alive, evolving, less constrained by the binds of his past. 

Steve’s eyes fill. Bucky's jaw squares. Steve reaches a hand to brush the shake from his chin, but all it does is bring them both to lean in. 

Steve kisses him, careful, Bucky's face in his hands. He means to impart as much as he can without words. Bucky holds the kiss until the shake’s gone away, but then he clenches his hands in the front of Steve’s shirt and doesn't let go.

They stand there a while, foreheads flush. Bucky seems to pull and then push at him, pull and then push.

"I," Bucky says, then clears his throat.

“I love you," Steve finishes for him. "I’m so glad you came.” He’s crying again, but he doesn’t care. Bucky mops Steve’s face with an open palm. “No matter where you are, no matter what you’re doing, know I’m out there somewhere—”

Bucky coughs a broken laugh. “God, _stop_. I said that, you don't get to say it back."

“—loving you,” Steve says with a wistful smile, "wishing I was next to you, having your back.”

“Your last shot at romantic overtures and you're just riffing off mine.”

“I can do better if you want.”

“No—”

"You've been everything to me for as long as I remember. You’re the only thing I've ever—”

His courage falters along with his voice. Steve takes a second, but he can’t seem to get either one back.

Bucky’s fingers creak, bunching hard in his shirt, until he kisses him just to shut them both up. Steve deepens it, giving as much of himself as he can, until Bucky pulls his lips messily away, dragging them across Steve’s mouth. _I love you_ , Bucky mouths against his lips, then kisses him soft. “I love you so much, you dumb fucking bastard, now don’t move and close your eyes.”

Bucky takes a step back. Steve snatches at his hand out of instinct. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says, grabbing his wrist. “God, Steve, I’m so fucking sorry.” He's steadfast now, a pillar of strength. He folds Steve's hand back against his own chest. “Close your eyes. Count back from ten.”

“Bucky...”

“I can walk out the door if you’d rather, but it wouldn't be easier. Just count, Steve, just... ten." He covers Steve’s eyes until they close, then cradles his jaw another second—and then he’s gone. “Nine."

This isn’t right, it isn't how it's meant to go. Steve wanted to be stronger, wanted to bravely see Bucky off back to his world. He wanted the last image Bucky had to be Steve looking at him in the way he deserves—but Steve’s not strong enough to do it. He’s not strong enough; God, Steve’s ruined.

He can hear Bucky shifting. The squeak of leather, a metal clasp—and Steve’s made up his mind. He steps forward, taking Bucky back in his arms to kiss him one last time, even with his eyes closed.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers; he still hasn’t opened his eyes. “I won’t be passive. I hope you make it safe.” This time, it’s him to let go. 

Nothing happens. Bucky, frozen, stays pasted against him, leather gloves tight where they’d grasped at his sleeves. He doesn’t say a word; he barely seems to breathe. It takes him a second to activate his limbs, breath shaking unsteadily out through his nose. 

He hadn't thought this through. The distance wasn’t for Steve. Maybe Bucky couldn’t leave and look Steve in the eyee.

Steve can be stalwart now. He can take over. “Eight,” he says shakily. He swallows. "Seven." 

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he’s moving again. Steve’s heart is pounding too hard to keep track of where he is. “Six.” He can’t control the shake in his limbs; presses his hands into fists. 

Steve could stop him. There’s power in the thought—that he could; that he won’t. 

“Five.” A single shuddering breath—only his, or Bucky’s in time. Is he still there? _Four._ There’s a stuffiness in the room that could suffocate him. His heart’s deafened him completely; he can’t hear a thing, can't hear Bucky at all. “Three.” The word barely clears his lips. Steve's resolve is slipping. He tips himself forward, reaches a hand for the dresser, resting hard against it for support.

He should open his eyes. His back's to the room; he'd see nothing there, and then brace himself to turn and see—what? Does he think he’ll be there? 

Is that what Steve wants? Bucky’d pleaded with him not to let Bucky condemn his fate; shouldn’t Steve want the same? Shouldn’t he want him gone?

 _Two_.

Christ, what has he done? He’s just letting this happen? He's just letting him go?

Steve opens his eyes.

  


  


  


  


  


  


“Earth to Steve.“

Steve lifts his head with a jolt. 

It's Natasha. Of course, it would be.

“Hi.” Steve's voice sounds about as rough as he feels. He turns back to his bag, stuffing clothes down the sides. It'll be better to hide his face while he can. “Where'd you sleep?" 

"Stark Industries.”

“Really?”

"No. Well, I was there, I just didn't sleep."

Steve frowns, nodding toward the bed. “Take a nap, if you—”

"No," she says, smiling. "No offense, but I wouldn't go near that bed wearing a biohazard suit."

If he doesn’t manage a smile, the intention was there. 

Natasha looks at him piteously. Steve tries to duck her reaching hand, but she's too fast for him. "Was it him?" she asks.

Steve must look adequately pathetic, because she lets him pull away a second later. "It was him.” He slides the blueprints out from where he'd shoved them into Bucky's journal. It feels strange to him now, how he’s carried that around; he hasn't looked at the pages in months, though he’s brought it with him everywhere. Checks to see that it's there all the time, runs his fingers at its edge for proof Bucky’d lived. Before he knew he was alive.

Bucky's alive. 

Natasha takes the plans from him and unfolds them for a look. She doesn’t seem surprised by what she sees. “Stark’s handwriting.”

“Sounds like he designed the the thing, with help from… a bunch of people. Bucky said—” A hiccup; he’d said his name fine half an hour ago. It still hurts less than last week. “If we take it to Stark, he’ll know what it means.”

“So we're Wakanda-bound.”

“That's the plan.” Possessive, Steve pulls the plans delicately out of her hands. “You, uh… you get everything you need out of HQ? You don’t have to come with me if you don’t—”

Natasha frowns. “You don't want me there?”

“No, I do. God knows I do.” He reaches to give her shoulder a squeeze. “I just… I dunno, I wanted to give you the option. Two years doing this and we only made progress because—”

“Steve,” Natasha sighs, leaning against the dresser. “I’m not travelling with you in the hopes of progress. To be honest, I’d lost hope a long time ago.” Steve looks at her, but she nods toward the plans. “Just goes to show how wrong I was. I’m not about to jump ship now.”

Steve’s eyes feel hot again. “Thank you. And thank you… for the food. I owe you hugely, that was…” He chokes up. “Really nice.”

“Aw,” Natasha says, rubbing his arm. “You gonna be okay?”

Steve takes a breath. “I need to get out of here.” After opening his eyes, Steve had turned to find Bucky already gone. He'd spent the next ten minutes in a state of devastation, frantically scanning the carpet for signs of ash. It’s strange what doesn’t occur to you until the moment. “Oh, um—saved you half an orange in the fridge.” 

Natasha gasps. “Tino had _fruit_?”

“Seems that way.”

“He might’ve said something. Is it good?”

“Beautiful. Right season for it.” Steve picks up a stray hoodie thrown over a chair. “My plan is to leave kinda now, unless you—”

Steve’s heart stops. 

He doesn’t own a hoodie like this. 

The material is soft in his hands—dark, midnight blue. Like Bucky’s eyes in a certain light. Steve remembers it on him—at least remembers taking it off, sliding his hands under its fabric to rest against his flank.

This is not where Steve left it. It’d been thrown on the floor with Bucky’s pants and the rest. Bucky put it there—or forgot, but…

Steve presses his face to the fleece. It smells like him; God, Steve could cry. He’s a swollen nerve, wrecked by a stray article. Bucky was here.

He was right goddamn here. 

“Steve.”

Only by bunching the hoodie in his hands does he manage to remove it from his face. “You can sleep in the car if you want,” he rumbles, clearing his throat. “If we grab some of that grounder coffee on the way, I’ll be fine through Oklahoma.”

“I already got you some. You didn’t hear me when I came in?”

“Oh.” He blinks up. “No. I didn’t. Thank you.” He looks back at his bag. “I’ll get the water. Are you packed?”

Natasha sighs and moves around the room. They don’t talk for a good few minutes, busied with their tasks. 

"Did it help?” Natasha finally asks, when both their hands are occupied. “Seeing him? I didn't know whether to… I could have made a different choice.”

“Why would you?”

It seems to answer her question. She smiles at him, zipping her bag up the middle. “Wakanda?”

“Wakanda.” He gestures for the door. "After you."

As they walk out, Steve lingers in the doorframe. He’ll remember this place.

The world waits outside.

  



	14. Dimensions and Friendships (Things That Bend)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for hanging in there re: updates. Here's a general update on what's up with this fic:
> 
> -I enjoyed Captain Marvel a lot! I'm so glad it was made! It's not canon to this fic. Please disregard it while reading.
> 
> -I've sought out more details about Wakanda's geography and topography since starting this fic and made slight related changes to previous chapters. The most relevant change is that the vibranium lab is on a mountain on Wakanda's western outskirts, at least a mile from the palace and capitol. Previous scenes in the vibranium lab have been altered to reflect this geography.
> 
> -Part I finishes Chapter 16-17. The explanations / worldbuilding broadly drop off after that and we're back to a much more action-oriented story.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!

  


The way Stark and Banner turn in place feels almost pre-planned, but silence falls hard and spontaneous. Clint stares out from a set of kimoyo beads on the desk—an interrupted call that Steve wasn't meant to hear. 

Banner looks like he hasn’t slept in the two years since Steve left, but it’s Stark’s appearance that hits hardest. His hair’s gone completely grey—a shocking reflection of later photos of Howard. 

All three of them stare at Steve and Natasha where they've stepped off the lift. No one says a word for a long time.

It's Steve who breaks the silence. “I come bearing gifts.” He holds the plans out in front of him, stepping toward Stark. Given how they left things, maybe the tension isn’t so surprising. 

Stark’s eyes fall to the plans, then flit back to Steve. “So we’ve heard.” 

His tone is airier than Steve expected. They study each other, looking for malice and passed time. Then Stark turns to Clint, arms crossing over his chest. 

“Call you back, Barton.”

“Bated breath,” says Clint. “Hey, Nat. Steve.”

“Hey Barton," says Steve. "How's it going?"

“One day at a time.” Clint gives a facetious wink and ends the call.

They're in a wide, circular room on the topmost level of the former vibranium research lab. M’Baku had no plans to further Wakanda’s reliance on vibranium, so had no qualms in effectively abandoning the place to Shuri’s pet project and its pursuers. M’Baku had greeted Steve and Natasha on the tarmac and issued a warning with abundant clarity, albeit punctuated with an off-colour joke: they were to be accompanied by Dora directly to the lab, and they would be considered trespassing if they appeared elsewhere in the kingdom without Dora escort moving ahead.

That was fine by Steve. Though Shuri lives in the Golden City with Ramonda, Bruce had intimated that she spends the majority of her time in the lab’s lowermost levels anyway. Shuri had converted several storeys of the tower—nestled high in Wakanda’s western hills—for the project of undoing the Snap: space for experiments, inventions, and quarters for foreign scientists.

The top floor, where they now stand, has been turned into a common workspace. A circular room with a 360-degree panoramic view of jungle and plains, the space is open with high ceilings, wonderfully bright. Folders and tablets have been stacked around holographic work consoles, a three-dimensional model of the Tesseract projected in the middle of the room. A small galley kitchen overlooks south-facing windows, giving a dynamic view of the kingdom below. 

It reminds Steve of the Avengers compound, for all its coziness and versatility: SHIELD files have been piled in all corners, giving no illusions—despite numerous couches—that this is anything but a place of work. 

"Hey, Steve," Bruce says, lips thin with apprehension. “Nat."

"Banner," Steve replies. His eyes stay fixed on Stark, holding the prints—challenging him to either take them, or deny Steve the vindication of success.

Stark takes them. Time has repaired their relationship at least that far. "Where'd you get this?”

“Take a look,” says Steve. “Easier to fill in the blanks.”

Stark unfolds it gingerly, like he thinks it’s going to explode. Natasha _had_ called ahead to warn of their arrival, but she hadn't given details. Wise, for her own sake; Steve had thought about doing what Bucky'd suggested and lying about who'd shown up with the plans. But apart from not being great at improvising details, Steve needs Stark on his side. Lying seems like a bad start to a new beginning.

Looking over Stark's shoulder, Bruce reacts first. "Oh—what?" he asks, shoving his glasses higher on his nose. 

Stark, meanwhile, has gone perfectly still. He sets the blueprints down and stands over them, hands in hard fists against the table. 

"If my information's right,” Steve says, “it's a prototype for a device to move between dimensions without breaking anything. Right now that's all it does, but—"

"I wrote this," Stark interrupts.

"Yes."

Steve can't parse the look in his eyes. "I wrote this?"

"He said you'd understand what you were looking at."

"Future-me?“

“You from another dimension." Steve risks a glance at Natasha. "Tony—it's from the dimension where we _win_."

Dust hangs mid-air in the afternoon sun. Steve can pinpoint the hums of individual machines through the silence. Stark seems to read the facts in Steve’s face, in his own shorthand script; he doesn't need Steve to tell him what he's looking at. 

"Strange was right," Stark mutters. “He knew…”

_We had to lose so we could win._

"Yeah," says Steve. "Seems that way."

Stark shakes his head, then jabs a finger at the design. "This is part of it. The design, it's not—"

"They only got this far before time ran out."

"Ran out? What do you mean, ‘ran out’?"

“They only had until—" Steve blinks, the whirlwind of the past days finally catching up with him. "Until the 8th, whenever that was. Timing mattered. They only knew where to find me on that date, at that time, at that exact location.”

"Why? How could they know that?”

"Because when I showed up to stop Thanos, I told them when and where to find me.”

A hard moment thrums. Bruce starts to pace, wrenching his fingers hard in his hair. Stark, meanwhile, stands perfectly still, watching Steve with disarming clarity. 

"Well," says Stark. “That _is_ a breakthrough.”

“Does that say what I think it does?” Bruce asks, pointing.

“Yeah,” says Stark. It's a long second before he wrenches his gaze from Steve to the blueprints. “Yeah, it's like we've been talking about. Bend space under the right circumstances, you bend time. Quantum realm…” He leans forward, squinting at his own handwriting. "What's… 'girl outside time'?"

It takes Steve a second to realize the question's directed at him. “I don't know,” he says.

“You don’t know?”

"I was told you'd understand everything. You don't know what it means?”

"You didn't ask for details?"

“I asked, but—" Steve pauses. Stark stares. "I didn't get a play-by-play."

"Alternate-me came through dimensional barriers to hand you blueprints for how to stop Thanos, and you didn’t think to have him explain this to you in excruciating detail?”

“Ah…” Steve winces, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It wasn’t you that came through.”

Stark blinks. “You talked to—yourself?"

"No."

“Well, what’s the problem? Was it Strange? Was it my evil clone, come to—” He looks up with sharp realization. “Was it Pepper?”

A lie would only hurt more in the long term. For all their difficulties, Steve doesn't want to cause him more pain. “I’m sorry, no."

"Then—"

"It was Bucky. Bucky came through the portal.” Stark opens his mouth, but Steve pushes on before he can get it out. “It had to be—same way it’s gotta be me to go back in time, collect the stones. The only people who can make it through the quantum realm are people with suits like Scott Lang’s…”

“And people whose cells have been mutated by the Space Stone,” Banner interjects.

Steve may not like the phrasing, but there's no denying the facts. “And unless someone's heard from Scott Lang…”

“He’s among the missing,” says Banner.

Steve gestures. "So it's down to me, just like it was down to Bucky to come across."

Stark narrows his eyes. "So—just so I understand what happened," he says, steepling a hand in the air. "You were in Los Angeles for… some reason _other_ than intercepting your boyfriend.”

Steve clenches his jaw. "Recon."

"Oh, okay. So while you were doing this _recon_ , your lover spontaneously turns up from the dead— _again_ —and you’re just like oh, what a surprise, fancy seeing you here, can you believe the price of gas?”

Steve keeps his mouth shut. Stark’s just trying to rile him up.

“Then he claims to have plans that—correct me if I'm wrong—can send you and _only_ you, _back in time_ , in what is so far our only shot at putting this hell on earth straight. And we're—" he gestures between himself and Banner—“just supposed to take that on faith?”

“Natasha saw him."

"It really did seem like Barnes," Natasha says. "Looked like him, sounded like him… Had the right information, the right history, the right mannerisms. Not a perfect mirror, either—he'd evolved, like a couple years had passed. Realistically.”

"It was him," Steve says. “I’d know."

"No trace of deception in what he was telling me," Natasha adds, “for what that's worth."

"So you think this is legitimate." 

Steve expects Natasha's swift answer, but she hesitates. "I think it's our best shot," she says, as Steve looks at her.

“Well, _that’s_ reassuring."

“Look,” says Steve, brushing frustration aside. “There are a lot of factors here we don’t understand; I get that. But what Bucky had to say makes sense. If he hadn't brought the blueprints with him, I'd be of a different mind. Doesn’t this prove—”

“You’re saying that because Barnes brought a map for this device that allows you to go back to a time when he was still alive—”

Steve bristles. “Is that your handwriting or not? Explain to me how else this could’ve been made. In your conspiracy world where this is all a scam—“

"You really don't get it, do you?” Stark glowers, stepping forward. “FRIDAY, perform a complete analysis. Compare against my handwriting; check its molecular levels, flag anything that suggests it might be fake. Nobody’s seen hide or hair of Thanos in two years,” Stark directs to Steve. “The most powerful being on the planet, capable of changing the shape of reality—capable of _disappearing_ three and a half billion people with the snap of his _fingers_ —has vanished without a trace, for no reason. We've seen jack shit out of the guy for two years, and then out of nowhere, _you_ show up with a set of blueprints that magically solves all our problems, given to you by a dead man, a metaphysical impossibility—"

"Oh, for God's sake."

"—and conveniently the only person who, from my understanding, has ever convinced you of anything you didn't already believe—”

“How else are we gonna succeed, Stark?” Steve asks. “How are we supposed to push through and fix this thing if we don't use this? I'm at the end of my tether, I’m out of ideas. It's not the tidy solution you're implying. Device aside, I still have to figure out how to round up six stones on my own, _without_ taking them away from Thanos, with no information on—"

"What do you mean,” Stark asks swiftly, “without taking them away?”

”According to—” Steve avoids Bucky’s name—“eyewitness accounts: when I stopped the Cataclysm, we both had the stones, me and Thanos. I had six; Thanos had five. We're supposed to keep everything the same—"

“How is that possible, eleven stones?”

“I don’t know, exactly—”

“Barnes didn't elabourate on _anything_?”

“Some things he either didn’t know or wouldn’t tell me. Look,” he says, responding to Stark's eyeroll. “It means we were probably right about duplication. Either we copy the stones, or we pull them out of the aether somehow. It’s the same idea we had at the start.“

“You’re saying you've got no further leads on how. No additional information, nothing that gets us closer than we were on week one—”

“No, I don't. Somehow Thanos' figment didn't provide that crucial information. Stark—if this was planted, Bucky would've told me everything, or at the very least _more_. Wouldn’t he? Why would Thanos mislead us with fragments of a plan?”

“Too obvious of a plant?” Bruce suggests.

“Well, if that would’ve been too obvious, this is too vague. You heard Natasha; trust her assessment if you don’t trust mine. This is still the best plan we've got. Whatever else it is, this is a _direction_. If you have a better idea, I’m all ears—but I don’t." Steve pauses for Stark's reply, but all he gets is silence. "If you don’t want to handle the blueprints, that's fine. I’ll take them back and find someone who will. I'm still willing to put myself at risk to make this work on the outside chance it actually might, and frankly I don't see what the risk is to you except wasted time on a potential red herring.”

“Wasted time is a lost commodity," Stark mutters.

“Is it? Because from my perspective, it seems like time's all we have. If I go back—if I fix it _back then_ —who cares _when_ we figure it out? If it takes us three years, five years, more… it doesn't matter. It's all in the service of going back to _fix this_ , to stop Bucky and Pepper and Sam and Wanda and everyone else from turning to dust. It's what we've been talking about from the start. And if you don't believe that… then at least believe we're wasting time arguing over the facts and let me address this with someone who will take a chance."

“Tony,” says Banner, hovering behind Stark. “We _have_ been talking about—” 

“Fine,” Stark interjects. His gaze is fixed on Steve in accusation. "I'll give it a shot. But we’re going in with a healthy dose of skepticism, here, Rogers—we're taking nothing on faith. An all-powerful being who can make us hallucinate whatever he wants whenever he wants is out there, someone who’s motivated to stop us from what we’re trying to do.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, bracing himself for at least six months of argument. “Understood."

Stark nods, just once. Then he picks up the plans and turns to some workbench, leaving Banner to trail behind. “FRIDAY, how’s that analysis coming?”

Relieved of Stark's attention, Steve looks to Natasha. “Some days it feels like he’s against me just to be against me.”

“He usually is."

“Speaking of..." Steve turns to her bodily. "‘I think it’s our best shot’?”

"What about it?"

"Wouldn't have killed you to support me."

"I do support you!"

“Is ‘I trust Steve a hundred percent’ too much to ask?”

“When have I ever trusted anyone a hundred percent?” she asks slyly, but nods to Stark when Steve doesn't take the deflection. “He’s right to be wary. There could be more at play here than you want to believe.”

"It was him. I know it was. You said yourself—"

"It _seemed_ like him. It's not enough to seem."

Steve barely sets his mouth in time to stop from saying something he'd regret.

“I'm not trying to change your beliefs. Just making sure you stay alive.”

“That’s not your job.”

“Well, it's someone’s, and your usual’s stuck in the next dimension over." Natasha either ignores or doesn't register his flat stare. "We’ve seen tricksters before—”

“Natasha. It was Bucky.”

She holds up her hands. “Okay."

"Your mind hasn't changed."

"No." She softens the blow with a squeeze at his arm. "That's the point of a team. To catch the things you can't."

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but Stark interrupts him before he has a chance. “Rogers," he calls. "Is there _anything_ you can tell me about this thing? More info I have, the faster we can get started."

Steve takes a breath and steps forward. It's nice to move forward, for a change.

  


  


  


  


Having explained himself to exhaustion once Shuri'd been pulled up from ten floors below, Steve’s collapsed into one of the sofas, Natasha's feet over his lap. After making Steve promise to check in at the lab tomorrow, Shuri'd disappeared for the night, leaving Stark to tinker at his workbench while Bruce stands in front of him, props in hand.

“So this is our timeline,” Bruce says, holding a piece of paper in the air. “And this is Barnes’ timeline." He holds up another page, this one yellow. "Normally the two timelines have nothing to do with each other—except for their common point of origin." Fumblingly, he stabs the two ‘timelines’ through with a pencil near the bottom of the page. “That’s what Barnes called the point of fissure—the moment you showed up in his timeline to defeat Thanos. Right?”

“Right,” Steve says tiredly.

“So after that point, the two timelines become totally different.” Bruce folds the two papers away from each other above the pencil. “But before this point of fissure…” Bruce reaches for the stapler, stapling the bottom edge of the pages together. “The two timelines should be exactly the same. His experiences, your experiences—everyone in both dimensions should remember the exact same things happening the exact same ways, until you stop Thanos. Did you compare notes?”

“Did… me and Bucky talk history?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” says Banner.

“We didn't talk much in general.”

With a snicker, Natasha makes a sound like a squeaking mattress.

“Please don’t,” Steve opines.

“Anything to confirm?” Bruce asks, blessedly ignoring her. “Growing up, your time in Wakanda…?”

“No.” 

Natasha makes the squeaking sound again. On the other side of the room, Tony leans on his hands, head hanging in exasperation.

“Oh!" Steve says, memory jogging. "Strange—he came back with Tony. Other-Tony, I mean, from Titan. Apparently Strange said the same thing he did here—one in fourteen million odds.”

“He was still alive?” Stark asks.

“Yeah, from what I could tell," says Steve. "Bucky said he trained with him for a while.”

“Why?”

Steve shrugs. “All he'd say was that I’d know soon enough.”

Bruce exchanges an unsettled glance with Stark. “Barnes mention anything else about Strange?” asks Bruce.

“No. Like I said, he was sparse on details. Other things—Thor had Stormbreaker; Eitri was on Nidavellir."

Bruce looks encouraged. “Okay, that's good. It’s something to go on. Let’s assume the two worlds are the same. When Barnes came through—“ Bruce stabs the papers through with a stylus, creating a bridge between them where they're folded apart. “He did what amounts to quantum tunnelling. That basically means that he appeared where he wasn’t supposed to, but he somehow managed to do it in a targeted way, like a planned lateral step across a vast distance.”

“Like the portals at Sanctum.“

“Exactly. Only I have no idea how he made it targeted. Usually quantum tunnelling happens randomly; you can't really predict where a particle's going to turn up with any degree of accuracy. I have assume that device—” Bruce gestures behind him—“let Barnes harness the ability to control a quantum tunnel’s destination while in the quantum realm. It's impressive, but not that surprising. I had kind of the same thought after talking with Wong right after the Snap. I thought that if we could somehow separate your atoms while keeping your quantum field intact, we might be able to push you across dimensions one particle at a time. Turns out making you subatomic works the same way, as long as we figure out how to get you to the right location.”

"So how do we do that?"

“I’m still fuzzy on the details. The device seems to know how to activate the serum, create portals from it. I’m much more concerned about how you’re supposed to know _where_ to make the portal: you kinda have to know what you’re doing, to find the right exit point. Otherwise it’s like flying a plane without specifying a destination. You could land in Argentina when you're trying to get to Paris. Making a portal to nowhere is a really good way to get sucked into a universe you don’t belong in. Of course, the other big question is how to modify the nature of this door—to travel through time instead of distance.”

“And that’s… easy.”

“Uh… no,” Bruce says, with an indulgent smile. “But we are a little further ahead on that one. Me and Tony have been talking for a long time about how the Time Stone and the Space Stone might be related. These blueprints seem to confirm what we already guessed: that the Time Stone regulates matter, not time. The Time Stone could undo our cells’ decay and reactions as we’re having this conversation, restoring us to a previous state of matter—basically de-aging us to a point before I started this sentence. Rewinding our cells, if you want. All that would mean is that we would have the same conversation twice in two different points in a linear timeline. Time itself would be unaffected, go on uninterrupted.

“The Space Stone, on the other hand, cuts down the _amount_ of time it takes to move between points," Bruce goes on. "Time and space are inextricably entwined. We use time as a measure of distance pretty often, especially once distance gets too far to understand in terms of miles. Alpha Centauri is 4.37 light years away, for example. What the Space Stone does, hypothetically, is cut that travel time down to its minimum by folding _space_. Again, it has nothing to do with time.

“So I’m pretty sure time is unchangeable. For all I can tell, it's one of the world's absolutes. Even the most potent cosmic powers in the galaxy can't mess with it. Atoms just can't experience any kind of change without time passing forward; that's what time _is_ , is matter changing and decaying and reacting. Which means that going back in time, the way that you and me and science fiction thinks of it, is impossible."

"Oh," says Steve.

“No, it's okay," says Bruce. "All that means is we have to figure out a way to travel through time without involving time itself."

"And how do we do that?"

"We bend space." Bruce folds the white page back on itself and stabs its top through its bottom with the stylus, to create another bridge. "Everything Nebula had to say about realms, about how there's countless dimensions lined up next to each other, made me think that there might be a physical element to the dimension we live in. Right now Plan A is to find a way to fold the dimension back on itself and create a door through the dimensional membrane, just like Barnes did." He taps at the stylus 'bridge' where it's stabbed between the same paper twice. "Only change is that we're piercing back into our own dimension instead of into a different one."

"And that's possible." 

“Theoretically. I don't think humanity's tried to bend the physical space of an entire dimension back on itself before. Seems like something only someone with cosmic powers can do, but if we're taking Barnes' claims on faith that it already happened, then we have to assume it's somehow within our grasp. 

"But that's just one obstacle, Steve. Barnes had an easier task ahead of him in other respects. If he trained with Strange, I’m a little concerned he might’ve had coaching on how to fold space, so he could figure out how to pinpoint his destination in the first place."

Steve nods, eyes closing. “Which is why the training mattered.”

"Right. But on the other hand—at least according to Wong—portals can be made by anyone with enough dedication. Just average people, without the help of a stone.”

Steve blinks. “They—what?”

“Yeah,” Stark sighs. “Yer a wizard, Rogers."

“Wong’s never wielded the Time Stone," Bruce explains, "but he can still make portals. Temporary ones, and just within this plane, but he can make them.”

“So… Wong can help.”

Bruce's smile conveys they're on little more than a wing and a prayer. “That's the hope. I figure that’s our first step, once we’ve figured out the basics on how this device is supposed to work." Bruce hesitates, then glances over his shoulder at Stark. "Did Barnes mention at all when you go back _to_?"

It seems embarrassing to admit he hadn't asked. "No," says Steve, running a hand through his hair. "I assume that was either classified or unknown."

"He give you any hints? Anything at all that might…"

"No. But if I had all six stones, it seems like figuring out how to get me to them and when might answer the question."

Bruce nods, looking strained. "Okay. I think we should start on that, just so it doesn’t look like we’re showing up on Wong's doorstep with no information.” 

He tilts his head toward Stark as he says it. Stark seems to know he’s being addressed, but shows limited interest in responding. 

“We _don’t_ have the information,” Stark mutters at last. “Truth in advertising.”

Bruce flashes Steve a thin smile. “At the very least, we can extrapolate part of a timeline. We know the Time Stone’s at Sanctum for decades until Strange starts carrying it around in the mid-teens. That’ll be one of the easier ones to track down; it's either at Sanctum or Strange has it in its immediate proximity. 

"Then there’s the Mind Stone—the obvious answer is to take it off Vision, but that might have complications we're not foreseeing since he's a life form. It might also be kind of hard to explain why you need to copy the stone out of his head, _but_ we know Strucker has it in the Sceptre in Sokovia in 2015." He gestures to Natasha. "I assume SHIELD had it before then."

“Yeah,” Natasha says, frowning thoughtfully. “Think it was stolen in… God, maybe January? Right before SHIELD collapsed.”

“Okay, that’s good. So you've got a window to break into Strucker's headquarters, but you could always try getting it from SHIELD before then, or from Vision if neither of those work out."

"You're not gonna get it from SHIELD," Stark mutters.

"Then there's the question of whether you go back far enough to get the Reality Stone through the Convergence," Bruce goes on. "Like Jane Foster did. Thor says that happened in October ’13.”

"And that," Steve says. "The Convergence. It closes in a matter of hours, right? Once in a lifetime event…"

"Yeah," says Bruce, "pretty much. Thor claims he has no idea where the Reality aether is, so I don't think you're gonna have a better opportunity. Since it's such a small window, I suggest we use that as our anchor point to start: assume that you go back to at least 2013 and extrapolate from there."

“Okay,” Steve says on a sigh. “That covers three of them. That leaves…”

“The Soul Stone,” Natasha provides. Steve winces in response.

“And the Power Stone," Bruce says, saving him from it. "We know from Rocket that it was at a few different places before Thanos got his hands on it. First time Rocket saw it was a few years ago. Hard to pinpoint the exact date, since his calendar and ours don’t exactly line up, but it’s possible that 2013 is early enough to catch it in transit. Actually getting to it is the bigger issue.”

“Where is it?”

“Planet called Xandar? Definitely not anywhere we know how to get to. It’s probably worth talking to Rocket directly.”

Nothing’s ever simple. “Anyone heard from him lately?” Steve asks, rubbing his neck.

“Last we heard from Thor, Rocket was still working on Nidavellir and not going anywhere."

“What are our odds of getting him back here?”

“Not good," sighs Bruce. "His mood took a hit before he left, seemed to want nothing to do with any of us. Thor says he works constantly and doesn’t talk much, which seems like a bit of a contrast to his usual, uh…”

“Motormouth?” Steve provides.

Bruce offers a polite smile. “Next time Thor checks in, we’ll see what we can do about pinning down a concrete timeline from him. I think we're on hold on that one."

“So that just leaves the Tesseract.” Steve looks to Natasha. “SHIELD had it for a long time _before_ Pegasus, right?”

“Mm,” she says, eyes trained on the floor. “Took possession pretty much right after Stark Sr. ran out of experiments to run.”

“Then Thor took it after the Chitauri attack. So I assume I either go back to a point before then, or I show up on Asgard.”

Bruce alternately fiddles with his papers and looks at Stark. “We’ll talk to Thor,” Bruce says distractedly, “see if he has anything to say about it.”

Too tired to keep track of where the room's awkwardness is stemming from, Steve leans over to catch Stark’s eye. “Don’t suppose you have a spaceship hidden away I might be able to use after I go back."

Stark looks up, but only to fix his gaze on the back of Bruce's head. “You mean _apart_ from the Quinjet?”

Bruce flinches, looking embarrassed. “Well... I did _crash land_ , so…”

“So you’re saying my jet _wasn’t_ meant to be flown out of the solar system.” Stark looks back to Steve. “Out of luck, Rogers. Guess you’ll have to find another way.”

Steve nods, exhausted. He should've guessed Tony wouldn't offer more suggestions than none. “Okay. Order of business: talk to Wong; talk to Thor; talk to Rocket; figure out space travel.” He sets the question of the Soul Stone out of his mind for the time being, looking up at Bruce. “I assume Wong’s still stateside.”

“Ah… yeah, sorry. I know you just came from there.”

“Wouldn’t be my first whirlwind trip to Wakanda. I assume this is an in-person situation.”

“I think, probably, yeah. We can collect the information if you really want, but since you're the one using it, you'd better get it firsthand.”

Steve nods. Fatigue sits heavy in his bones. “Okay. How long until wheels-up?”

“Couple days?” Bruce says, glancing at Stark. “We probably want to figure this out before we go pursuing leads about how to make sense of it. We were thinking of trying to find Pym’s lab while we were stateside, too, see if there are any notes we might be able to turn up, help us decipher what Other-Stark wrote down.”

“Isn’t Pym based in California?”

“Yeah,” says Bruce.

Steve grimaces. “It may be that Wong's gonna want you to stay in New York anyway," Bruce tells him, "to do some kind of training. Let's play it by ear, but I see no reason for you to trek out to L.A. again.”

“Alright," says Steve.

“It's getting late,” Bruce says, glancing at his watch. “I say we call it a night, unless… there are other thoughts? Feelings?”

Natasha's jaw cracks as she yawns. “Mostly 'tired'," she says.

Bruce smiles, gesturing to the lift. “Someone show you the quarters?”

“Yeah," says Steve. "Okoye gave us a tour on the way up.” Okoye, who’d greeted them on the tarmac with M’Baku, had given them a wink that had bordered on friendly and gossiped to them the whole short drive. Steve and Natasha had already chosen a room overlooking the plains, though they could've had a bedroom apiece; Stark and Bruce had rooms a storey above, leaving them the entire floor. 

Steve hasn’t really slept properly since… well, since before Bucky. That was days ago. Just those few hours with Bucky and naps in the car. He's looking forward to a good night's rest, especially somewhere with functioning infrastructure. “I’ll catch up with Shuri first thing tomorrow,” Steve promises, catching Natasha’s lazily reaching hand and pulling her to her feet. “Get some rest, alright? Prints'll still be there tomorrow, we got a long road ahead.”

“Mhm,” Bruce says distracted, waving them off, already lost in thought. If Steve had to bet, he'd say neither one of them was planning to sleep much tonight, or in the coming days.

  


  


  


  


Steve dreams that he meets Bucky in a sunrise. 

Their shitty motel bed is the only thing among them—a greyscale imposition in a tangerine sea. He smiles to see Bucky, glad to have found him again so soon; he looks beautiful, his hair its old style. He reaches a hand to brush it out of his eyes—

Bucky drops something into Steve’s palm and speaks. 

The words are in English, but Steve doesn’t understand. He looks down. There’s nothing there, or nothing he can name: discolouration, a vortex, maybe the wind.

“What is this?” Steve asks, but his voice sounds odd. It doesn't echo. Bucky's does—he proves it by answering the question. 

Only Steve still can't understand. Bucky closes his fingers over Steve’s. The message is clear, now: _keep this safe._

Steve still doesn't know what it is. “I don’t understand."

"For you," Bucky says. Steve hears him this time. "One-way ticket."

"To where?"

"Through." Bucky’s fingers are warm, his thumb pressing in affectionate strokes. Water pools at their ankles, warmed by the sun. “Don't forget it. I don't wanna drag the whole family back up to Queens a second time."

Steve's heard that before. "You ever gonna let that go?"

Bucky moves his hand away. Steve moves to catch it on retreat—but blood ekes out from between the lines of his palm, a drop falling deep into the pools at their feet.

Steve opens his hand. There's a cut on his palm where the vortex was. He runs a thumb along the wound; it seems deep. Blood between his fingers. Wasn't it dust before?

Something flickers in the corner of his eye. When Steve turns, he finds the bed has disappeared.

"Bucky," Steve says, dragging his gaze up to find him. "I don't think it's safe—"

But something's wrong; Bucky's face is wrong. His smile is too big. It isn't like him, it isn't him at all. 

Steve takes a step back and the smile grows bigger, threatening to overtake— 

With the next step he takes, the water at Steve's feet flickers. 

He's alone. He's been moved, or he moved. Bucky, the figment, isn't here anymore. 

Sand dunes flank him on either side. A purple mountain towers at his back, the outline of an eclipsed sun burning high in the sky. Steve calls Bucky's name, but the sound comes out wrong; it doesn't echo in no atmosphere. 

His heel slips out on the next step, and Steve can't catch himself; he stumbles and falls, trying to catch a hand, but falling and falling all the same. 

  


  


  


  


Steve wakes to the sound of calling birds. 

Orange—the same colour as in his dream—beams in through the window; a sunrise in earnest. He can’t have slept more than five hours, but he knows in an instant he won’t sleep more. He watches the slow heave of Natasha's breath as he adjusts to the morning; it'd been Bucky he'd woken up with, not long ago. It feels like hours. It feels like months.

_We’ve seen tricksters before._

Steve glances at his palm. Nothing there but memories of the dream. He rubs at his knuckles, where Bucky’s fingers were.

Bucky’s out there, somewhere. Rooting for him. Just a dimensional membrane away.

One appetite yields to another, his stomach reminding him of the dinner he'd missed. Steve dresses and slips out in search of food. Unlike the palace quarters, the vibranium lab has no guest kitchen. The lift takes him to the tower's topmost level where, Steve reasons, the galley kitchen must hold some kind of fare. 

He finds at least six different kinds of breakfast pastries and not much else. He shudders to think how long Bruce and Stark have been eating like this. Exploratory digging yields wilting vegetables shoved behind stacks of takeout in the fridge; experimental opening of boxes delivers chicken, which Steve stacks carefully across three butterflied croissants. 

He takes his meal sitting at the bar, overlooking the vast Wakandan plains. It’s quiet. It's still. For the first time in years, silence doesn't feel like a burden.

He's about halfway into his breakfast when the lift slides open. 

Stark seems just as surprised to see him as is Steve, stopping dead in his tracks from the first step. 

“Morning,” Steve says idly. He takes a bite of his food, looking outside.

In the corner of Steve's eye, Stark assesses him with miserable scrutiny. Then he pushes to his workbench in silence. He must not have slept long, but the rumpled cotton pants and tank suggest he’d at least taken a nap. It’s unlike him to do that, midway through a project. Maybe age has caught up with him.

The quiet resumes. Neither speaks a long time, their backs to each other. Steve eats; Stark tinkers.

"You wanna talk?" Steve asks as he's finishing off his second sandwich.

"Nope," says Stark. 

"Just gonna be like this until the day you finally get rid of me, huh?"

"Can't come soon enough."

Steve nods, tonguing croissant out of his molars. "Don't you think that's a little antithetical, antagonizing the guy you need to be able to pull this off?"

"Me?" Stark asks, half-turning. " _I'm_ antagonizing?"

"I'm not the one throwing drinkware at people."

Stark shakes his head. "You know... for an alleged tactician, you can be kinda dense. Anyone tell you that?"

"Never pretended to know everything. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Are you serious?"

"If we're gonna do this, we need to be able to talk to each other. If this is how it starts, so be it."

At first, Stark doesn't say anything. "Alright," he says finally, dropping his tools. "Let me ask you this. When you imagine breaking into SHIELD to get the Tesseract, say, in or around 2012… what does that look like to you? I'm just curious."

"To be honest, I haven't put a lot of thought into it."

"No? Doesn't that seem like kind of important part of all this? How you get to the stones in the first place?"

"I assume Natasha'll give me a run-down of SHIELD's security points, identify potential points of entry, figure out a way to get me in."

"So you're just gonna go for it, is that it? You, Captain America, are just gonna break into SHIELD Headquarters, find the Tesseract that they store smack-dab in the middle of Manhattan…?"

That gives Steve pause. SHIELD knew they had a nuclear weapon on their hands. 

"It's not in Manhattan," he ventures.

"Oh—isn't it?"

Steve sighs, turning on the bench. "Where is it?"

"Think we're getting ahead of ourselves. You didn't answer the first part of my question."

"Which is what?"

"Are you," Stark says, facing him—"Steve Rogers, national war hero, missing in action, presumed dead for seventy years—going to risk showing your face at a highly secure SHIELD facility, _before_ they've even pulled you out of the ice... without anyone seeing you?"

Steve's starting to catch on. "What do you know?" he asks, levity gone.

"I know a lot, actually."

"Stark. I know you get off on being withholding—"

"Confusing me with my father? I'm offended."

"Do I get caught? Is that what you're saying?"

"No," Stark says. He grabs a journal from his workbench and throws it across the intervening space. "I'm saying you don't break into SHIELD at all."

Howard's journal—the one Stark had read from the last time they'd had it out—lands beside his breakfast with an indelicate thump. A red tab sticks out of one of the pages. 

Steve turns to it to find it blank. He gives Stark a look, but Stark's already handing him a small, hinged box. "I’d tell you not to touch this directly," Stark says, "but since I hear you’re immune to radiation, I guess it doesn't matter.”

“What is it?”

“Arc reactor. Small one. They're usually better contained, but… well. I needed it portable."

Steve opens his mouth to retort, but the glow from the open box lights Howard's handwriting on the page before he can get it out.

> _3 17 90_  
>  _Received a visitor from up north, brought some interesting news. Discussed a great source of energy, really out of this world, associated with building an initiative of persons. Keep thinking about what SR said about the Artefact, how it can be used to make all kinds of weapons. I suggest we apply this logic broadly._  
>  _We may not live to save the world, but maybe the next generation can._

"My dad invented the arc reactor," Stark's saying. "I ever tell you that? Fashioned it off the Tesseract. 'Course, he could never get it to work; that was left for me." 

The same entry Tony had read him, months ago. What had he been angry about?

_You told him how to make the serum._

"All this next-generation talk," Tony says. "Kinda been following me for a while. Feels like he meant it that way. Maybe not. Hard to say."

 _Are you him?_ Tony'd asked. _Or are you the other one?_

"You knew," Steve mutters. The words leave him before he knows he's said them.

In response, Stark sighs.

"You knew," Steve repeats, louder. "You've known for years—"

"I guessed."

"It was more than that. You knew that I go back in time—"

"Again: I guessed."

"—and you didn't say anything?"

"I did say something. Just not to you."

"Why not?"

"I'm telling you, because I didn't know for sure. I extrapolated. Bruce came back from talking to Wong saying how the Time Stone moves matter through space instead of time, yadda yadda, and then Dad's journals showed up…" Stark gestures to the page, then runs a hand through his grey hair. His tone's lost all of its edge now; exhaustion, Steve guesses, draining the tanks. "I figured it out in the middle of our last, y'know, ill-fated conversation. If you think about it, it all fits."

_Received a visitor from up north._

"You think I go back—to 1990," says Steve.

"Tesseract's held in a bunker," Stark says, "in the middle of the Mojave Desert, from about 2008 onwards. I don't know where it was before then; the records on the bunker don't exist before Pegasus. Maybe it was there or maybe it wasn't; hell, maybe you can figure out how to get in there. But it's pretty locked down while Pegasus is in play. A bunker inside a shelter inside a wider campus—I'd say there's no way you're getting in there. I'm not even confident _I_ could get in there. Fury knew what he had, knew what he was trying to protect. Only way Loki got in was through the Tesseract itself. Moreover, there's no way anyone's getting in there without Barton seeing, which he swears he didn't."

"So you've been talking to Barton, too."

"Sure. Bruce, Barton, Romanoff—"

" _Natasha_?"

"—her royal Highness… The point is, Rogers, that while you've been galavanting about chasing your leads, we've had to _plan_. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but there's nothing else that makes sense, nothing we have evidence for. It's written down, hard to refute."

"Why would I go to _Howard_ —"

"Why not?" Stark shrugs. "You guys had a rapport. Given that your other options are Asgard, Loki, or beaming yourself through three layers of SHIELD bunker with no witnesses, Dad seems like the easier bet."

Steve blinks, teetering against disbelief, but Stark's seriousness steadies him. "And you think I, what, just walk up to him?" Steve asks. "Greet him like it's nothing, say sorry about the Arctic search but I'm fine now, and by the way can I see the Tesseract?"

"Why not?"

"Tony."

"You know—you only really call me that when you're gearing up to get real condescending."

"Why 1990? Why not 1985, why not 1962?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's something to do with the time-travel process. Maybe…" Stark sets his jaw. "Maybe you had to tell my dad about the serum on a schedule, I don't—"

"What? Why would I do that?"

"To keep history on track? To make sure events line up the way they're supposed to? Make sure Dad only knows how to make the serum then and not earlier, to make sure Barnes is free to do the mission, to steal the serum, so _he_ feels guilty about the other Russian soldiers—so _you_ get to drag him after Zemo—so the two of you can re-form your unbreakable bond in the present day—"

Steve's on his feet before his thoughts catch up with him. "You can't let a single thing drop," he growls, "can you?"

"Listen to my words. Am I saying that he _killed my parents_ in cold blood? No, even though he did. I think I'm being pretty generous, under the circumstances."

"Why bother?"

"Because it's clear to me now—it really is clear to me now—just how small of a clue you have. Faced with irrefutable evidence, you still fight the facts."

"In what sense is this irrefutable? It's a badly coded message from thirty years ago in invisible ink."

Thirty years. Christ, is that how long he'll have to live? Waiting for the Convergence, wiling years of empty space away?

"You got a better explanation?" Stark asks. "Or have you forgotten—" He grabs the journal from behind Steve and flips to the page before the entry, showing Howard's schematics of the Tesseract. Then he grabs the arc reactor and flips to the page after, until lines of equations flash purple on page after page. "You wanna guess what you're looking at? You wanna take a stab at why he chose to add entries to _this_ notebook when he hadn't used it since 1974? How else could he have connected the Tesseract to the serum all of a sudden if this _visitor from up north_ wasn't you?"

Steve leans away, hand at his mouth. There's a lot about this that doesn't sit right, but the longer Stark talks, the harder it feels to deny. Howard gives Steve's initials in the middle of the entry, for God's sake—not in the same sentence as the 'visitor from up north,' but the correlation's clear enough. Whether or not Steve was there as Stark claims, it looks like he's connected to whatever conversation Howard _did_ have.

Steve tries to imagine stepping through a portal and sitting down with Howard. What would Steve say? How would Howard take him, forty-five years down the line?

"You really think he'd just let me see the Tesseract?" Steve asks. "I appear out of nowhere, and… what, explain the situation, hope he understands?"

Stark actually huffs a laugh. "Uh, yeah, I don't think so." But to Steve's surprise, it's far from a dismissal; Tony seems to really consider what might get him in with his dad, even now with open baggage at their feet. "To be honest, Rogers... the more I think about it, the more I think I might be giving you too much of the credit. My father was a shrewd man; I don't need to tell you that. To be honest: I _don't_ really think he'd trust you walking into his office after fifty years in the ice, no. And even if he did, if you managed to convince him… he still gave nothing for free. And I mean nothing."

"He gave me the shield."

"No. He lent you the shield—"

"Tony, give it a rest."

"—in exchange for access to some of America's finest secrets. Including you." Stark studies him, shaking his head. "You really didn't know him at all, did you?"

Steve's eyelids flicker with annoyance. "What's your point?"

"Let's say you walked in, he confirmed it was you, and you asked him for five minutes with the Tesseract. I'm saying he wouldn't do it for free. There'd be a cost, because there's always a cost, and it'd be high. Like, final nail in the coffin of the Soviet Union high. Like, late-in-life supersoldier serum legacy high. Because—and I've been trying to tell you this since day one, to my credit—for all his inventions; for all the businesses he started, for the fairs he threw, for founding SHIELD, for building brand new leagues of weapons… the thing he cared about the longest—the thing he poured endless resources into, that kept him trawling over the Arctic oceans for more than thirty years—was finding you." Stark lands a sporting punch facetiously against Steve's arm. "Y'know, I used to think he was sentimental. He had that in him, y'know? Reserved for nostalgia and wedding anniversaries and films he never planned for me to find. But I think it's more than that. He wanted to find you because he wanted to find you—but he also wanted another shot at you. At making you."

Stark shakes his head, shifting his weight where it's leaned at the bench. "And as well as I know him... I also know you," he says. "I know you won't stop at anything to accomplish your mission. Not with stakes like these. If the thing standing between you and saving lives, between you and seeing your lover thrive, is giving over one lousy secret…"

Tony doesn't finish the thought, but he doesn't have to. If it came down to it… they both know Steve would do it. 

They marinade in the fact of it—Stark resentful, Steve sorry, neither wavering in his belief.

"If there was another way…" Steve says at last.

Stark coughs, incredulous. "Give me a break."

"I wouldn't do it if it wasn't a last resort. You gotta believe—"

But Stark pushes off from his bench, heading toward the lift. "It's too early for this. I'm going back to bed. Tell Bruce and Shuri I told you, would you? Get them off my dick."

"Look, Tony—"

Stark waves a hand behind him, not bothering to turn. "That's why this is your job and not mine. You're the man for it, Rogers, in more ways than one. Up to us to live with that." 

Stark steps into the lift without another word. The silence of the morning falls again, but this time, solace is much harder to find.

  



	15. Steve Storms

  


Steve's never seen the vibranium lab lit up with so much activity. Customized for Shuri's use—six different displays are running at once over both storeys of the lab, all tilted to where Shuri works up on the catwalk—the place looks like it's been hers from the start. Electronica music beats loud enough to rattle Steve's ribcage, acquitting him of the impulse to catch Shuri's attention. 

Not that he’s keen to interrupt. Gaze trained on twin consoles, diagrams fragmenting and reconfiguring without her input, Shuri doesn't even look up when Steve walks in. Someone had to authorize Steve's entry into the lab, so she knows he’s here. He knows better than to think she hasn't noticed him by now.

Steve leans against the nearest wall, attention falling to the displays. Most are scientific, showing diagrams and equations out of his depth, but two stream video: one looking like a site analogous to YouTube, another showing the news. A reporter speaks to the camera in front of the Quinjet, where it's parked in front of the palace, and—Steve's not sure why he's surprised to see it. The centrality of their arrivals in Wakanda have meant their presence has never exactly been a secret. 

But the fact that it's actually newsworthy, something to put on the networks, is interesting. It makes him think the Kingdom's more invested in Shuri's projects than Steve had been led to believe. 

Recreating the Infinity Stones is undeniably Shuri's domain by now. The rest of them are just trying to figure out how to execute that research. Without the device to extract Infinity essence from the existing stones—

Steve straightens. But… Howard already did it. He must have already made a machine capable of extracting the essence; he had to, to make the serum. 

If Steve shows up in March of 1990 and Howard was killed in 1991… Howard spent less than two years building that device. And if Tony has his notes for the serum, he probably has…

As usual with Stark, they hadn't just been having one conversation. The whole team's been working on a different level than Steve for the last two years. Steve doesn't know the first thing about the state of this operation.

He’d be willing to bet Shuri's already invented the device she's supposed to be working on.

"Shuri.”

It’s not loud, but firm. Shuri's eyes flit to him, annoyed. "A minute." 

Her voice is barely audible over the beat, but he hears it. She'll hear him, too. "How long ago did you build it?"

That gets her to turn. Steve had expected her to look stern, but though her expression is bracing, her eyes are alive.

She looks older. They all do. At least Shuri's still got excitement in her. 

She waves a finger at the console without looking. The music cuts down to a low pulse. "Stark explained," she says.

"Yes.”

Shuri's face casts to the ceiling, hands clasping to her chest. “ _Finally_! I have not liked not speaking with you, I don't mind telling you. How are you? No matter; one thing at a time. For now, follow me."

Shuri slips through the bars on the catwalk, landing neatly on the floor below. Steve follows her to the back of the lab, where a sheet has been cast over a bumpy-looking device. 

"If you didn't like Stark’s secrets,” Steve asks as he catches up, "why go along with them?”

"It did seem for the best," she admits. “At least until we were able to present something concrete. I did not like the idea of…" She trails off, eyes flitting aside. "False hope. Red herrings, you understand. Coexisting at the same time as Barnes…"

"Is something I should be preparing for."

"No."

Firm—a syllable so strongly rooted in belief that Steve feels accosted by its simplicity. "What? Why the hell not? Why is that anyone else's call?"

"I am sorry.” Shuri looks it; she studies him through a weighted silence. "I did construct the device some months ago."

Steve straightens. "Off Howard's notes?"

"Yes."

"And it works?"

"To the best of our understanding—yes. But there are other problems." She whisks the sheet back as a magician pulls a tablecloth. "The most obvious being the size. You could not, clearly, bring this with you to 1990 without attracting undesired attention."

Five cubed feet in size and comprised largely of glass and steel, the machine looks as fragile as it does unwieldy. "I have not been able to pare down its dimensions," Shuri goes on. Relief hits Steve by surprise: she might have made _this_ machine long ago, but she still hasn't made the _right_ one. Not _all_ of his life has been a lie. "Obviously, if you are running around for thirty years, you will need something compact, a device that might fit into a briefcase." 

Steve has no idea how he's supposed to make it through thirty years without changing anything when he's hauling a universe-altering device around with him. "I… okay. Can you break this down? You put in an Infinity Stone and out comes raw aether…?"

"We believe so, yes. Obviously we have no Infinity Stone to test with, so our tests are merely analogous. Fortunately, we have had success with diverse materials similar in structure to Infinity Stones. Those alien weapons you brought me years ago," she says, gesturing to a small pile of drained Chitauri rifles in the corner, "have proved extremely useful." 

The first time Steve had visited Bucky in Wakanda, he'd brought the weapons to Shuri in the hope she'd know how to shut them down. She hadn't—at least not that she'd told Steve. It’s lucky they could be important now. 

"You said the fuel was alive?" Steve asks.

Shuri presses her lips. "You mustn't hold it against me.” She holds out a finger. “But that was… not correct. I was very young."

Steve suppresses a smile. "I assume you know more now."

“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? I misunderstood the method of communication between weapon and wielder. The weapon's fuel does operate, as I have observed, as a sort of electrical conduit: this allows it to read the impulses of its wielder. The fuel is not alive, but it is capable of accepting rudimentary commands…"

Steve finishes the thought for her. “…Like people have commanded Infinity Stones."

"Precisely. In comparing the fuel's molecular structure to Mind Stone scans, we have yielded crucial answers. We were able to deduce an approximation of the Mind Stone's ethereal composition—in other words, the likely properties of Infinity Stone essence. I am confident this machine is capable of producing such essence from an Infinity Stone simply based on the fact that it can perform similar functions with other self-sustaining power sources."

Steve looks dubiously at the machine. "And Howard produced the serum with it."

"So we assume. Scientific doubt may thus be partially banished by history. But while this iteration of the device was not exceptionally difficult to make, it is functionally a thirty-year-old computer. I am strongly committed to perfecting a modernized version of the device," she adds fiercely, glaring at the machine as though beholding a personal enemy; "make no mistake. But I am… temporarily hindered."

"You're stuck."

"I am no such thing," she says, plainly offended. "I am in the midst of constructing a quantum computer, but this takes time—"

"Alright," Steve says, holding up a hand. "I trust you. Just…" He rubs at his neck, wincing at his own distrust. "Is this another lie? Have you constructed this already and are just holding onto it until something else changes…?"

"Certainly not." He’s offended her again, but at least he’s getting straight answers. "Distilling this—" Shuri gestures derisively at the machine—"into a device a faction of the size is a much greater project than creating it in the first place. The amount of power that courses through these tubes… it may heat up, it may explode. All prototypes I have made so far have been insufficient to hold Infinity energy."

“I’m sorry I doubted you. Not sure where to turn.“

Shuri ignores this. “There is also, of course, the issue of making the device look like it belongs in the era.”

"Oh." Steve frowns. "Is that… necessary?"

"At the very least, I shall have to refashion the case for the gauntlet—which must, I remind you, be large enough to house both the gauntlet and the extraction device, while still being portable—to look correct for the year. These aesthetics are important, but… perhaps of secondary matter. Of greater concern is making a device capable of channeling a cosmic degree of power without destruction or harm to the wielder… unless you are willing to alter your biochemical composition."

"What?” Steve asks, alarmed. “Why would I do that?"

"It may be possible to communicate with the Infinity Stones this way, as the Chitauri do with their weapons. Perhaps consider it a last resort." 

Steve rubs his eyes, exhausted. "If my blending in is the goal here, I don't see how making me electric is gonna help."

Shuri suppresses a smile. "A fair point. We shall see."

Steve's past the point of being able to differentiate joke from actual possibility when it comes to Shuri, but her mockery is soothing in its way. The conversation feels almost normal, apart from the subject matter; they feel like they're on an even keel. Colleagues and consultants instead of apocalyptic allies. Steve hadn't realized he'd been missing everyone's banter so much—a lighthearted twist on the end of the world. He'd managed to laugh with Bucky, but even then, the solemnity of their task had been too—

"How was Barnes?" Shuri asks, as though reading his mind.

Steve's surprised to be asked. “Uh… he’s good?" He rubs his neck. "Yeah, he's… doing good. Whole thing was kinda weird, y’know, but… yeah. He seemed. Y’know. Good."

Shuri looks at him flatly. 

"It's what I've got,” he says.

“How romantic!”

"I've never claimed to be—"

“You come to me talking of falsehoods, and now here you are with your bald-faced lies—“

"I dunno what you want from me here."

"You see your husband alive, you say he's good. Very well. Perhaps he is."

"I'm not married."

"If you insist." Shuri picks up the white sheet from the ground and turns it in her hands, searching for the corners. "And—my brother?"

The question is so forcibly casual that it has almost no impact. "Uh… oh. Yeah. He’s alive and well, or so I hear. In charge of the Kingdom, the way he should be. Bucky and the others left Wakanda within a couple days of the Snap, or the not-Snap, or whatever, and I don't really have the sense T'Challa's priorities overlapped with Bucky’s, so he didn't have a whole lot to say about him. But, yeah, it sounded like he was doing… good.” He meets Shuri’s eye and pre-empts her eyeroll with one of his own. “Buck didn't mention Wakanda much, but things seemed at least stable. Much moreso than now, for what that’s worth.”

Shuri nods, focused on the sheet in her hands. If his answer about Bucky hadn't satisfied her, his answer on T'Challa seems to. "And Barnes,” she adds at last. “He didn't mention any problems he was having—troubles with his mind, his prosthetic?"

Steve flashes a sorry smile. "I think if he was gonna bring them up, he probably would’ve talked to the Shuri he knows."

It's awful to watch her remember—that their worlds are not the same. She recovers fast, casting the sheet back over the machine as though nothing had befallen her. “Just as long as he's well."

They stare at the covered five-foot machine, aware of its potential, its stubborn blockades.

"How long has Natasha been in on this?" Steve asks at last. “The secrets, the hidden research…"

Shuri winces. "Don’t involve me in this."

"You were already involved when you agreed to keep secrets."

But all that does is drive her away; Shuri invokes a hasty escape toward the spiral stairs. “I will answer your questions about research and nothing more, so unless you have further inquiries, I aim to return to my work. The sooner I finish, the sooner we can move on.“

Steve sighs, watching her climb. He can tell he’s going to get nothing here. “Alright. What kind of a timeline are we looking at?"

“It depends," Shuri says. "I wish to consult at length with these new blueprints for ideas, though the information on it—depending on Stark's willingness to help me translate his shorthand—could take weeks or months to decipher. I will know more in the coming days."

How nice it feels to get information, even if the answer is 'I don't know.' "Was it worth it?" he asks, low. He doesn’t like putting her in this position, but he doesn’t like the position she put him in, either. "Shutting me out? Over this?“

Shuri's expression falls serious, but the pity on her face says he won’t find his answer. "It's been good to see you, Captain," she says quietly; then she waves a hand and returns to her work. "You look well." 

She turns up the music before he can reply. Steve takes a steadying breath, but accepts the dismissal. It's not Shuri who's behind all this. She’s just a pawn in someone else’s game.

"I look terrible," he calls back, making his way toward the lift.

"Did you enjoy the snow, however?"

“The…? What snow?"

"Do Yetis not enjoy life on snowy mountaintops? I have been misled!“ And as the lift doors close on Shuri punching a fist in the air with glee, Steve realizes he's going to miss this century a lot more than he can know.

  


  


  


  


Seemingly unburdened from two years of carrying secrets, Natasha's flat-ironing her hair as usual when Steve walks in.

"Hey," she says, distracted by her task. "You get some sleep?"

Steve stands in the doorway, watching. His eyes settle on the unmade bed. On a chair by the window, Natasha's bag sits half-unpacked, Steve's nearby in the same state of disarray. Four years they've traveled together now—four years of hunting answers, of having each other's backs, or pretending as much; four years of pretending like they could count on the other, that they each had each other's best interests at heart. 

The sole material possessions that matter to Steve—the ones that used to be Bucky's—he's left unguarded in their shared quarters countless times. Just sitting there. 

Does she know the contents of Bucky's journal better than he does? What else does she know that she hasn’t shared?

"Yeah," Steve says, stepping into the room. Bucky's hoodie is the first thing he pulls out of his bag—already incriminating, but alluring as well. Steve mulls the fabric over in his hands, trying to figure out what to say. He hadn't expected this, this ambush, this revelation; he has no scripts, no ready words. What is there to say when your best friend has knowingly betrayed you? 

From the bathroom—the sound of the flat iron against the counter; bare feet sticking on tile.

"You talked to Stark," she says behind him, quiet.

Steve takes a slow breath and turns. Bucky used to wheedle at him for stonewalling when upset, but the barrier seems physical now. She's built it herself.

Natasha doesn't have a way through either. Steve averts his gaze, turning again to find the beard trimmers.

"It wouldn't have sounded right from me," she finally says. Steve shakes his head, pushing past into the bathroom. "Stark needed to be the one to tell you. He's the only one you would've believed."

“Why? Why did you believe that? I’ve never trusted him the way I trusted you.”

The past tense lands like wet fish on the tile.

“We all agreed—”

"You all agreed," Steve repeats, "to keep me out of the loop."

"On this, yes."

"Is that supposed to settle me? I guess everything else you disagreed on?“

Natasha leans against the doorway, arms crossed at her chest, and opts for her usual waiting silence. Steve’s not playing that. He lets his gaze drop, takes his time with the clippers. He can dig in as long as her.

"We were running on speculation," she says at last.

"Yeah. Stark and Shuri leaned pretty hard on that excuse, too."

"You're overreacting."

He raises his eyebrows. "I'm overreacting to conspiracy among my team?"

"Well, if you're calling it conspiracy…"

“What would you call it?"

"Tactical information."

Steve sets the clippers down hard, leaning on one hand against the counter. "I expect that from Stark,” he rumbles. “I accept it from Shuri. But from you?"

"We're all here for the same reason."

“Keeping your team leader in the dark?"

"Undoing the Cataclysm. Keeping you alive."

"Natasha. Seriously?"

"There are lots of moving parts to this thing—“

“You think I don't know that? I find out _today_ ,” Steve says, holding a hand out to the side, "that machine in Shuri's lab only exists because I told Howard what kind of machine to make. He got _assassinated_ because I told him what machine to make. Bucky had to go through _God_ -knows-what training those other assassins because I told Howard what to make. I don't just have to _live_ with these conditions, Natasha: I _created_ them. But go ahead and explain to me about moving parts.“

“This—" she waves a finger at him—"is why we didn't tell you, by the way.”

“To hell with that. You should have. I should have known from the start. All of you have known this for months, but somehow I’m too delicate—”

“We had no evidence. Think rationally: what did Barnes tell you? Was it to find another way, or was it to make sure history always goes exactly as it already has?" Steve opens his mouth, but Natasha's not done. "Think back to last week, before you knew Barnes was alive. Back when you were convinced you'd already failed."

"I didn't—"

"Do you think you're a cipher?" Natasha says briskly, and it cuts deep enough to shut Steve’s mouth. “If we'd tried to tell you you had to go back to 1990 and ignore the fact of Barnes' existence for thirty _years_? Think how you’d have reacted. Look at how you’re being now and think of how you are when your morale’s in the ground. This is already driving you crazy, Steve. If you hadn't spent that time with Barnes last week, something like this would’ve incapacitated you."

"You're making a lot of presumptions," Steve says, but Natasha doesn't slow down.

“And I—as your friend; as your confidant; as the person who’s trying to keep you out of harm’s way—wasn't going to put you through that. To lay down mission intel we had no evidence on and expect you to carry what was possibly a false hope of success, _and_ the crushing defeat of not saving Barnes at the same time?” She shakes her head. “We sure as shit had better known before we told you anything.”

"So this is only coming out at all because Bucky showed up."

"It's coming out because Stark looked at the blueprints Barnes gave you and thinks he can actually build the device. It went that deep.“

"So if Bucky hadn't given us workable prints—you'd never have told me?"

"That's right."

Steve pauses, disarmed. He hadn’t expected her to double down. "And all this is supposedly in the spirit of protection."

"Yep."

“Okay.” Now Steve’s starting to understand. “So what other mission-critical intel have you seen fit to 'protect' me from?"

"Some."

For all his cynicism, Steve hadn't predicted hearing Natasha admit she’s lying to his face.

He pushes off the counter, running aggravated fingers through his too-long hair. “Nothing’s ever goddamn easy. You sit in that secret SHIELD bunker with me and ask me to trust you—”

"Like I said—"

“No, I don’t want to hear… Actually, you know what, I do. Explain this to me. Explain why I should ever trust you again when you're intentionally undermining—"

"I'm not _undermining_ anything. I'm telling you, we're all working toward the same goal, including you.”

"Then loop me the hell in!"

Natasha shakes her head. "I can't."

Her sudden calm only adds to Steve’s fury. “ _Why not_?”

"Because if I told you everything, the mission would fail."

There’s a ringing in Steve’s ears.

"What?" he asks faintly.

Natasha sighs and looks askance, looking uncomfortable for the first time. Finally, she’s saying more than she’s been authorized. "You need a team," she says carefully. "At this stage of the mission, you still need other people. That may annoy you, and it may not be perfect, but you need people doing the work for you to get where you need to be. You can't make Shuri's device. You can't make Barnes’ device. You can't teach yourself to travel through time. You need _help_ , Steve."

"I know that.”

"But you don't see that you need help in more than just technical expertise. You need someone to distil information, to brief you on what's relevant, so you can keep a clear head and stay focused on your task."

"Is that what you're doing? _Distilling_ information?"

"Yes."

What Natasha’s been hinting at finally sinks in.

"You're my handler,” he says thickly, rubbing fingers at his mouth.

"Don't be crude.”

"Turning up leads, controlling my communications…"

"I haven't controlled anything. You've been free to talk to whoever you want. You've also been involved in every decision we've made together since the collapse of SHIELD—"

"This all sounds like a lot of lip service given that no one inside your little intelligence ring wants to talk to me."

"Oh, give me a break. You spent _months_ with Clint. You've been with me the whole time—"

“If your job's been to obfuscate the truth, I don't think that counts."

"Once again, I’m doing this to _help_ you. Everything I've done in the past two years has been to maximize your chance of success. Information management may be part of my _role_ , but it's not my job. If it was my job, I wouldn't give you the courtesy of this conversation. I _do_ actually care about your feelings, whether you’re willing to acknowledge that or not, which is why I'm doing everything I can to take some of your burden onto my own damn shoulders.”

"This is a lot of talk for what amounts to taking the path of least resistance."

"Goddamnit, Steve, you're not the only one who's lost someone!”

It's not often Natasha loses composure; it means something when she does. Steve stands silent, taking her in: the shake of her fists, the fast clip of her breath. 

"The rest of us are suffering, too," she goes on. "Why do you think Rhodes left? What about Rocket; Nebula? Why do you think Thor's not here, helping us restore half his people? None of them believe it's possible. They're not like you and Stark and Banner. To them, that kind of hope is toxic. It’s toxic to me too, and it’d be toxic to you if it wasn't being tempered. I've stood by and watched Stark and Banner and Shuri put their faith in a hail-mary theory based on conjecture from a dead man's journal. I've watched you dig and dig for any shred of hope you can scavenge and cling to it like it's your last link to sanity. 

"And I, like everyone else who's not here right now, thought you were all out of your damn minds. But for better or worse, I still believe in _you_. I believe in your determination, in your asinine conviction in what's right. I, standing by watching you destroy yourselves with hope, just as stranded in this miserable hellhole of a world as the rest of you, decided to bank on my being wrong. I cleared you a path. Part of that—yeah—was making sure you didn't get forced down the wrong road by somebody else's insatiable hope. You want me to own up to my reasons for going along with this?" She throws an arm. "I care about you, Steve. I hear Stark's baseless conviction that you intentionally threw his dad into the clutches of an assassin, and I start thinking about what you can _use_ versus what might start to tear you down. When I think about what I still want out of this loveless world, it’s you _alive_. So I’ve made that my mission. All I'm trying to do is balance all of these factors as best I can by giving you the _right_ information at the right time. I do this so that, on the off-chance your blind hope isn't built on quicksand, you don't self-destruct before you can save everyone else's sorry asses.”

Faced with the ferocity of her conviction, Steve's reminded of confronting her—confronting Fury—leading up to SHIELD's demise. Those secrets hadn't served anyone, and look where it got them. 

But they'd all survived. They'd all wound up on the same side, in the end.

“And if you're smart," Natasha says, wavering—“if you want to stay alive too, you'll let me keep doing what I'm doing. Because I do know you, Steve, and whether you like it or not, I have a pretty good feel of your limits. I know how you think. I know that ever since you’ve committed to wielding the stones, you’ve been worried about staying better than Thanos, making sure you don’t become him, and part of what separates you from him is that you have friends to help. Trust them when they say you can't afford get hardened by things that don't matter. 

“You lead from hope? Let me do what I can to keep that insane hope alive. Information comes through that isn't crucial, that detracts from your focus, that has the capacity to compromise? Let me hold onto it. I will always advise you with full intel in mind. That's what teams are _for_ , Steve, they distribute the damn burden. It's all you and me and Sam—” that familiar twinge, every time she says his name—“have done since our names got put back on government watchlists, so let help you the way I know how: by putting my skills to use, separating the wheat from the chaff, being your goddamn bodyguard if that's what it takes, and getting you _through_.”

Nothing she says changes the facts. He's been set apart from the rest of his team. They can barely be said to be a team anymore, operating on different assumptions, toward different goals. Steve's become someone’s dancing monkey all over again.

Only this time—isn’t he the legislator? Isn’t the agenda he’s serving his own?

Natasha’s not wrong: he still needs the help. There's never been a fight he's ever wanted to walk into without somebody by his side.

"You'll tell me everything," Steve croaks. The words barely get out. “When I need to know. Promise me I won't walk into things blind. Whatever you’ve got—it'll hurt me more if I’m not prepared. You may think I'm a bleeding heart, but I’ve managed to survive this long. Don’t ‘distil’ my information so much that you screw me out of survival. You better be damn sure you’re right, Natasha.”

For a moment, Natasha's still. Then, finally, she nods. “You won’t walk into things blind.”

"I'm trusting you." Words suddenly fail him; he doesn't know what he's saying. Suffocating, he taps impotently at his chest. "I'm trusting you."

Natasha’s mouth starts to open, but shutters closed when she blinks. For a long second, they just stand there and stare: a showdown straddling a pedestal sink.

They both know things have changed. Steve will look askance at half-conversations for as long as they're still traveling together. Natasha’s lost something; he can see that too. 

He's not angry anymore. He’s not sure what he is. Grieving, maybe, after all this time. He’s long since lost track over what.

“Do you want me,” she says, then clears her throat, “to cut your hair?”

The offer almost surprises Steve into a laugh. He’s not sure how to answer. He can’t cut his hair himself, but it seems strange to do this now.

Natasha takes a step into the room, fishing the scissors out from among her toiletries. The wake of admission fades to utilitarian relief. She stands in front of the mirror and gestures Steve down, and after a long moment he kneels, exposing his neck for the hundredth time.

Natasha pulls strands of his hair gently between her fingers. Steve could watch her in the mirror, but he doesn’t see the need. “How short we going?" she asks quietly.

"Hadn't thought about it. I guess…” He frowns. “Think you could pull off a Captain America look?”

“Really?"

“Back to business." 

Natasha hums, bunching her fingers in his hair. “Think I can manage.” Natasha takes the scissors to his hair again; he tries not to shiver as hair falls down his neck. “Not gonna shave, though, are you?"

Steve smiles, subdued. “Why? Don't you want to be seen in public with Captain America? It’s fun, especially these days. Arrested for surprise reasons instead of the regular ones.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to fly under the radar these days."

"As opposed to the rest of the time.”

“I’ll have you know I was voted most vivacious in my senior yearbook.”

Steve breathes a laugh; Natasha tuts and steadies his head, the way she's done a thousand times. 

Some things stay the same. Nothing's ever forgotten with them.

  


  


  


  


To escape the oppressive tension of the tower, Steve takes some fresh air in the afternoon. On a whim, mulling through his luggage, he'd pulled out Bucky's journal and taken it with him. His walk doesn't take him far; a short way into the northern brush and the view becomes breathtaking, worth sitting by. 

The air is thick from recent rain, but the sun’s re-emerged, casting sheets of warm light across the plains. Steve finds a sturdy outcropping and sits, feet dangling out over the cliff. He used to balance like this all the time—seeking precarity, revelling in the feeling and gravity of danger. At the docks; atop building roofs. The third-floor walkup Bucky's family had lived in through most of their childhood had a ramshackle fire escape, barely still holding on. It creaked every time the pair of them went out there, but still they went: to trade baseball cards; to give Steve air while Bucky smoked; when they'd wanted to talk without being overheard; to make out now and then, when it got late enough for the creaking steel not to draw attention. 

Precarity added to the thrill, to the trust. They always knew where to find one another, after they'd grown up: their feet always dangling, tempting the ground.

Steve's fingers play absently at the pages of Bucky's journal. It isn't that he hasn't looked at it over the last two years; it’s that every time he has it’s been out of desperation, in pursuit of solid ground. Natasha wasn't wrong—Steve has lost hope, lost perspective, now and again over the past few months. The landscape is bleak, their task insurmountable. Sometimes he’s needed the reminder of what and who they're fighting for.

The book falls open in his hands easily—almost welcoming, though Steve knows better. He still can’t figure out why Bucky’d switched out of code. Steve’s always seen more of him than others, but far from everything. Simply to open it, Steve has the sense he’s transcending the ironclad boundaries of a private man. 

He spends long minute like this, fingers held across the tops of pages, before he can bear to look down. Bucky's blocky print fills the pages in short entries and long, most a few days apart. Steve skims, smiling faintly. Bucky's voice is audible, still fresh in his mind. He'd missed this; God, he misses him. His absence is a canyon fathoms deep. It's a different ache now that Steve's seen him—survivable, if always physical. Steve's got a long road ahead of him; maybe they won't see each other again. But Bucky’s out there and breathing, washing his hair. Rooting him on. It’s enough. It all counts.

Steve's eyes slow as he reads, his tender smile fading into a frown. Quick glances at entries over the years must have been fleeting enough to have missed things that matter. Rumination on memory, obscured in long paragraphs about the weather, tell a story Steve hadn’t realized was there. Bucky was so much more preoccupied with the task of rememberance than Steve ever knew—yet little of it seemed to strike him as important enough to bring to the forefront. 

In an entry from June, buried amid his observations on the grain crops:

> _…impression these threshers operate at a capacity above my clearance level but can’t get close enough to find out. Some scrambled not unscrambling. Should talk to Shuri but kinda afraid of being both wrong and right. Could be fake stuff she missed, can’t tell need to think. Rained again today; reminds me of storms back when, furious squalls done in 30 mins. Steve storms. Not worth it to wait them out, fields turn to muck, usually better to walk home. Small luxuries—walk in the rain, warm bath after. Guess I'm into water now—? Good to feel alive in any case._

Steve reads through subsequent entries with his nose to the page, but it’s fleeting phrases between daily screeds. The goat kids were growing but the lake was oddly still; Bucky remembered wringing chicken’s necks for Mrs. Norris down the way, only the memory turned sour so he threw a stick in the lake to make sure it wasn’t glass, and it wasn’t. Split a papaya to find it full of ants, briefly wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating; showed it to a passerby to hear her exclaim, knew not to eat it then, reminded him of showing unshoed hooves to squeamish Sally.

Then for nearly two months, nothing at all on memory until just before Steve came to September visit:

> _…ramifications for market economy, bartering, goat cheese for smartphones—I guess both are essential and that's the point. It’s not that currency doesn't exist either, just a middleman. Been thinking about the liquor board (mob guy??) showing up around the same time Steve started eyeballing the army but I don't know if I ever told Steve about him? Put the two together; still mangled. (?) ~~Dunno but~~ Not a priority, just can't get it right. Gotta wonder what propaganda did or didn't go into the idea of all technologies of labor as equal anyway. Should ask Shuri for books, that kind of history I could handle. I know too much or not enough about goat cheese now, can't tell Steve or he'll want that farm._

Steve looks out over the plains. He couldn't say what specifically had started him on trying to enlist; he'd been walking down the street, heard people talking about recruitment centres, and walked into one on a whim the next time he saw it. It’d been the right thing to do, he had believed that, but he and Bucky weren’t getting along, or were getting along better than usual; they were barely talking, necking too much. There was an element of vengeance to it: Bucky wouldn’t divulge how he was spending his time. Steve had divined to make them even by doing his part no matter what it took. But that’s all he really remembers. 

Steve takes in the view a while before leafing through the remaining entries. He doesn't find more about memory; Bucky's journalling habit seemed to fall off in the months before the Snap. He remarked on farm rotations, storms, the state of the lake, and Steve’s visits, and little else. 

Steve closes the journal, expression locked in a frown. If the entries are buried, they probably didn't matter enough to Bucky to dwell on, let alone for Steve to worry about now. It's tempting to get lost in questions, for Steve to write out his own memories to try and figure things out; but for now, reckoning with his last free evening in what might be a while, Steve settles on sitting somewhere Bucky liked to be and thinking of him by the river, craning his neck to check for rain.

  


  


  


  


The cosmos, apparently, convene in a brownstone in Greenwich Village.

"That explains a lot,” Steve mutters.

“Oh yeah?” says Clint. “Like what?”

They’re standing on the sidewalk with Natasha while Stark and Bruce mutter furtively on the stoop. “I dunno,” says Steve. “Just some things.”

“Like why Manhattan sucks?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“How can you still hate Manhattan this much?” Clint asks, while Natasha snickers. “Didn't you live here for like a year?"

“Yeah, and it was long enough. There are worse places.”

“Like Iowa?” Clint prompts.

“Didn’t say that either.”

“Well,” says Natasha, “you know what Sam had to say.”

Sam would’ve said, as he had a hundred times, that Steve had just seen the wrong parts of Manhattan at the wrong time. Truthfully, inflicted with insomnia for the better part of the last eight years, Steve had discovered parts of the city he’s loved, albeit a little afield and tucked away, best seen and patronized in the morning’s wee hours.

Another thing he’ll miss. Not that he’d admit that out loud. He’s got a Brooklyner’s reputation to maintain.

"Hell," Steve says, throwing caution to the wind. ”I got thirty years to kill. Maybe I'll live here for a while, see if it grows on me. Hey, Stark—you know of any apartment complexes with good light around here?"

"Yeah," Stark says absently, chewing on his mouth, eyes trained on the door. "Stark Tower."

“And when'd you finish that again?"

"2012."

"Great,” Steve says flatly. “Thanks for the tip."

They'd convened at the Avengers compound, Clint flying in from the farm, and driven into the city together. (“I didn’t want to miss this,” Clint had conferred as they’d piled into the car, “but I kinda wanna get back ASAP; Valkyrie’s found the tractor, keeps threatening to soup the engine and turn it into a monster truck.”) Steve had started to debrief them all on the zoning situation as they’d approached—what disguises they might need, how to navigate the underground—but Stark had driven them all directly through the checkpoint with alarming ease, given that he hadn't spent much time stateside in almost two years and at least two of them were internationally wanted.

"Thank you, FRIDAY," Stark had muttered when they'd gotten through, and FRIDAY, installed into the vehicle's systems, had cheerfully replied. While the so-called 'authorities' had built their systems off of scavenged technology, Stark explained, FRIDAY—still secretly installed in the now 'government'-owned Stark Tower—had apparently developed security workarounds as a result of having been actively integrated into US technological infrastructure.

However easy it may have been to get here, there's one problem technology can't help with: nobody is answering Wong's front door.

"And you did call," Stark asks.

"I called," Bruce says. "We talked, we agreed to meet. I don't know why he's not—"

"Did you try opening the door?"

Banner looks horrified. ”I’m not just gonna open the door."

“Why not?”

“It’s not my house!”

“Just try the knob.”

"I'm not gonna try the knob.”

"Fine," says Stark. "I'll try the knob.”

"Tony…"

Natasha looks wistfully at Steve. "Just like old times, isn't it?"

As though sensing Stark's approach, the door opens before them. A man stands calmly, one hand lingering on the knob. One look between Stark and Bruce suggests this isn't the man they're looking for: wearing robes with squared shoulders and defined lapels, the man stands tall, his face curtained by long black hair.

"Hello," says the man.

"Hi," Stark replies. "We're looking for Wong? Tall, goatee, wears robes kinda like… that.“

“Wong will be with you shortly," the man says. “Allow me to show you in."

Bruce and Stark exchange an unsettled glance. Why they’re wary, Steve can’t tell. He knows better than to ask questions at this point; he’d probably get half an answer, stonewalled by hidden agenda. 

He steps into the building after them, Clint and Natasha at his heels. If he didn't know better, Steve would think he'd walked into a Victorian antiques shop. The downstairs, panelled in dark wood, gives the impression of an almost-cozy study, but upstairs’ dark green walls feel uncanny and outdated even to Steve. Statues, dark furniture, glass lamps and dusty bookshelves do nothing to detract from the impression he's just walked into the home of an old eccentric whose mind and decor arrested development a century past.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” says the man, showing them into a room off the second-floor landing. Half-lounge, half-museum, the room is open into the hallway and adorned with leather wingback chairs and Victorian armoirs. “I regret we do not have refreshments to offer.”

"That's quite alright,“ says Stark, feigning preoccupation with a book on a nearby shelf. “Thank you.” 

Steve’s not sure if it’s because everyone else seems to be on edge—Natasha’s stationed herself casually against the wall by the door, a plainly tactical position—or the general strangeness of their environs, but bad expectations feel hard to shake. Despite the profusion of chairs in the room, no one sits down. 

"Well," says Clint, breaking the stuffy silence. “Everyone else got a bad feeling about this?”

"Bad feeling?" says Stark, pulling another book briskly off the shelf. "No, of course not. I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason why Wong would invite us here, refuse to greet us, and then leave us here to stew."

“Maybe he’s just busy," says Bruce, but he doesn't sound convinced himself.

“Maybe he's meeting with the _other_ world-saving contingent," offers Clint.

Looking deceptively comfortable where she’s settled against the wall, Natasha shrugs. “Been a while since we've walked into a good trap. You never know; could be fun.”

"It's not a trap," says Bruce. "Wong could cut holes in the floor and drop us off the cliffs of Dover if he wanted to. If he'd trapped us, we'd know. This is just… the waiting area."

“Waiting for what, an ambush?” asks Clint. Bruce elects to ignore the question, so Clint nods to Natasha. "How many you figure?"

"Guaranteed two by the front door by now," Natasha says smoothly. "Probably two on this floor. I'd guess there's probably another couple guarding the way to Sanctum, wherever that is, plus countless guys poised to give backup through the portal to Kamar-Taj.”

“Don’t forget the at-will portals to countless other places through the walls,” says Stark.

“Then there's the new portal thing, like Bruce says,” Natasha finishes, smiling thinly. “Dropping out means dropping in.”

"So it's a trap," says Steve.

"It's not a trap," Bruce insists, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. "We asked for help, and we're getting it. How about we give the benefit of the doubt until further notice, huh?“ 

"Besides," Stark says over Steve’s scoff. "They can probably hear every word we say."

"Right," says Clint, setting heavily down in a chair. “Being quiet in the trap."

“Anyone want to tell me what possible reason they could have for putting us in a trap?” Steve asks.

“They could be working for Thanos,” Stark says idly, surprising Steve with his honesty. “Could be trying to stop us for other reasons; could be they tortured Wong, got what we’re trying to do out of him. Wong could’ve been against us all along.”

“Not all along,” Bruce objects tiredly.

“Since Thanos, anyway. Could be they found out something about the time travel and are of half a mind to stop us.”

“That option borders on possible,” Bruce admits, “ _if_ it’s a trap at all. I don’t need to remind you the risk of punching a hole through the fabric of the universe, especially if we’re wrapping time back on itself. If we’re not careful, we could easily create a damaging paradox.”

“I thought we were being quiet in the trap,” murmurs Clint.

“Don’t we risk a paradox if I go back in time anyway?” asks Steve.

“Not exactly. You’re just one guy, you’re not really an effect.”

“Barnes might disagree,” Clint says, holding up a high-five for no one.

“On the other hand, someone in 1990 staring through the portal to where we are in 2020?” Bruce shakes his head. “That’s an effect, that could have some real significant repercussions. Two moments in time thirty years apart trying to occupy the same space is a recipe for badness. That’s how you get the big rifts, the kind that don’t want to close. So, yeah. They could be trying to stop us from doing that, I _guess_ , I just don’t know why they wouldn’t use words.”

“Trap,” Clint says calmly.

Steve sighs heavily, looking around. “Well, if anyone sees anything that resembles a shield, I call dibs.”

“Saw some antique plates coming in,” offers Clint.

“Yeah, the copper ones? Bit soft.”

“It’s a shield, not a fist. Use your fists for fists.”

"Wong!" Stark says suddenly. All heads turn to the entryway. “There you are, buddy. We were just talking about you."

Wong—tall with a shaved head, hand held behind his back—says nothing, letting his eyes fall to Steve. He enters the room slowly, gaze unwavering. Steve's first thought is that he looks furious; he sure doesn’t seem to like Steve very much. 

As he approaches, circling at a wide berth, Wong’s hands fall to his sides in heavy fists.

"Jim Barnaby,” he says. He directs the words to Steve alone, low and deliberate. From the way Wong’s eyes set on him, it’s as though no one else is in the room. 

Steve’s never heard that name before. "I don't know who that is.”

"You have been barred from the Kamar-Taj." Wong steps forward, raising his hands. Twin discs of burning energy appear over his fists, sparking audibly in the room. 

Steve raises his hands, placating as he retreats. As Wong circles Steve, Natasha circles behind Wong, the three of them turning like rusty cogs. Somewhere in the distance, Steve can hear Stark trying to defuse the situation, but Steve’s too focused on Wong’s manifesting energy to pay attention. 

“You risk death by entering these halls,” Wong says.

“I don’t understand,” says Steve. “Why am I barred?”

“You know why.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. I’ve never been here. I didn’t even know about the Kamar-Taj until a couple years ago.”

“When you infiltrated it.”

Steve frowns. “No. I didn’t.”

Now, Clint up from his chair, Bruce and Stark shuffling along trying to defuse from a distance, all parts of the room are moving. “Your brazenness intrigues me,” says Wong, menacing. "To return here without even a disguise after the violations and destruction you caused—”

“What violations? What destruction? I’ve never met you.”

"Wong," says Stark, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. "Talk to me, buddy. What's going on, what’s this about?”

"I've never been here before," Steve repeats. "You have me confused."

"You should know who you travel with," Wong tells Stark. "This man infiltrated the Kamar-Taj—"

"I have never been to the Kamar-Taj."

"—injured my colleagues, in some cases fatally; caused irreparable damage to the library—"

“I never did any of this,” Steve directs to Stark. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

Stark sighs in exasperation, pinching his brow. “Wong, let's talk about this. This man is Steve Rogers, Captain America. I’ve known him for years, no mistaking him. He wouldn’t do what you’re saying without a good reason.”

“This man is Jim Barnaby.”

Stark rolls his eyes—hard. “Yeah, I have no doubt, but he’s also Steve Rogers. Y’know—the guy we’re trying to send back in time? Any chance you’re seeing him out of order, here? When was this alleged destruction—mid-2010s, something like that?”

"2015."

"Yeah, okay. So in 2015, Steve Rogers was spending most of his time at the Avengers compound training the next batch of Avenger recruits. We have eyewitnesses. Most of them are here. If this is really Jim Barnaby, we’re dealing with the same guy in two places at once.” Of all the people to send a dirty look, Stark chooses Steve. “Jim Barnaby,” Stark mutters grimly. “God, you don't have an original bone in your body, do you? Guess it rolls off the tongue, hard to forget.”

Realization lands hard. Steve stands up straight, no longer circling.

Jim Barnaby— _James Barnes_?

"Oh,” Steve says faintly.

"Yeah, _oh_.” Stark leaves him to his shock. “Wong, I believe what you’re saying. But whatever he did? I don’t think he’s done it yet. That's why we're here, that's what we're trying to figure out. Hold him accountable however you want, I don’t care, but let’s straighten the facts out first: it’s not that he’s back. He’s here for the first time.”

Wong looks between them, still poised for a fight—until, all of a sudden, he’s not. Anger completely forgotten, Wong lets his shoulders fall, energy shields disappearing as he straightens. 

"Please accept my humble apologies,” he says to Steve, giving a nod. It’s like nothing happened. “Understand I meant you no harm. I just had to be sure of your intentions.” Wong sets out of the room. "Follow me."

Still trying to figure out what just happened, Steve reluctantly follow Stark and Bruce when they follow Wong out of the room. 

“Jim Barnaby was a student at Kamar-Taj,” Wong explains, nodding them up another set of stairs. Natasha and Clint bring up the rear. “He worked his way through our training system with the express purpose of learning sorcery. This is unusual; most who appear at Kamar-Taj are in search of a specific goal that sorcery can aid. Strange, for example, sought to heal the bones in his hands. Barnaby was different. He arrived claiming to seek only mastery. We get this sort of nonsense all the time," Wong conferred; though he was primarily speaking to Stark and Bruce. It seemed strange to Steve, after all that, that Wong was referring to Jim Barnaby in the third person. "Generally we turn away such requests at the door. But the Ancient One took one look at Barnaby and accepted him as her personal pupil. Another unusual circumstance of his arrival.“

They enter a room at the top of the stairs seemingly fashioned off an observatory. A large circular window opens up to the sky. This is the most lived-in room Steve’s seen in the building so far; densely filled bookshelves line the walls, chairs placed throughout, half-empty mugs of tea sitting at various corners of the room.

“The Ancient One," Steve repeats numbly. 

Wong settles himself behind a table stacked high with books—journals, photo albums, anthological tomes. "The Ancient One was the keeper of the Time Stone, prior to her death. It seems that you will meet her in time."

"So he does go back?" Stark interjects. "You found the proof?"

Steve hadn’t been aware they were looking for more proof. "I did not find what you were looking for," Wong tells Stark, though he pulls a photo from a nearby book. "But if Steve Rogers' whereabouts truly are accounted for in 2015, then this may still serve as the proof you need."

Wong slides the photo across the table to Steve. In it, a woman of about thirty poses in the foreground, quarterstaff held aloft as her sparring partner prepares to block. The sky is a crisp, gorgeous blue; a building with sloping eaves sprawls across the background, mountains flanking to one side. Two other pairs of fighters are also mid-spar, staggered throughout the courtyard, both mid-attack.

In the very back of the photo, a sole pair stands, their postures visibly different from the rest. The man, square-shouldered and tall, has brandished his hands in patent defense—weaponless, placating—while his sparring partner leans away, pair of staves in her hands. In spite of her armament, there’s no mistaking her stance: far from poising to attack, she is more likely to flee than to fight.

The beard on the man’s face is the same as what’s on Steve’s; even to his own eye, the angle of his shoulders seems unmistakable. Though some thirty feet from the photographer, the day is unobscured; there can be no mistake. 

Steve is the man the woman’s afraid of.

He’s sure he’s never been to that courtyard. He’s never worn that kind of robe, never spent long enough in any part of the world with that kind of architecture. 

The picture is dated: July, 2015. Steve had been with the Avengers from May through to September that year. There are other explanations for the photo, Steve thinks as Stark snatches it from his hand—maybe he does have an imposter. Maybe it’s a trick of the light: Steve expected to see himself, and so he has.

“Son of a bitch,” Stark says. He turns the photo to Wong. “Is this before or after he wreaked havoc on your library?”

Wong looks to Steve, saying nothing. 

Maybe it is what it looks like.

"You came here seeking training," Wong says, ignoring Stark. That endears Steve to him somewhat. "I hope it is becoming obvious that I can’t help you.”

“You can’t,” Steve says, as the others crowd around the photo, “or you won't?"

"Both," Wong admits, "but moreso the latter. I have seen your power, Captain. Whether you know it or not, you have an aptitude. When you open a portal, they are not of the typical kind. You do not simply draw your power from another dimension as others do.” Wong taps a fingernail gently at the back of the photo. “This was taken moments following the manifestation of a portal with enough gravitational mass to have sounded the alarms at Kamar-Taj—in other words, a disturbance on a cosmic scale. The sort to put the fabric of the universe at risk.” Wong tosses three charts on the table, each more inscrutable than the last. All mark the same event: at 10:37am on July 18, 2015, a force akin to an earthquake registered for less than two seconds before dropping away. 

“The manifestation was subsequently completely closed,” Wong goes on, as Bruce picks up the graphs, “with no trace or historical evidence of there ever having been a portal in that location. That is usual with the sort of power we employ—but not when it comes to power with these readings. An event of this size, exhibiting these forces, to disappear without even a trace… it should not have been possible.” Wong takes the graphs back when Bruce hands them over and offers them to Steve, who shakes his head. “On interrogation, it became clear that Barnaby had intended to close it about as much as he’d intended to open it—which is to say, not at all. He was able to control his ability, but he was not _in_ control of it.

“I am not the Ancient One,” Wong says gravely. “Neither do I have her confidence that your power is worth risking. Neither am I in possession of the Eye of Agamotto to undo what’s been done were things to go wrong. If I were to train you in creating portals, and you created something you could not close…” He shakes his head. “I am not willing to risk the fabric of the universe for the mere possibility of rescuing those we’ve lost. You came here for training, but I am sorry.” And he sounds it; the contrition is clear on his face. “I truly cannot help you.”

Steve exhales. If they got off to a rough start, he can respect where Wong’s coming from. God knows he appreciates a straight answer. “Well.. Thanks,” he says, stepping forward to shake Wong’s hand. “For your time, and the information. It’s definitely more than we had. I guess we’ll—”

But when he looks aside, the narrow-eyed look on Stark’s face stops him dead. Stark’s staring at Wong with as much suspicion as before, weighing the photograph in his palm. 

“You knew enough to pull out this photo,” Stark says. “You knew who he was when he entered. Steve Rogers, Jim Barnaby, same guy. You knew that.”

A moment passes. Then Wong nods. There’s something weighty about the silence that puts Steve on edge, back on his toes. “I ran the photo through facial recognition technology,” Wong says, “to confirm. Such that these things _can_ be confirmed at such a distance, this man’s face matches that of Captain America.” Then he hesitates, eyes flitting to Steve. “I had reason to believe you were outside your time,” Wong explains, “but wanted to test your instincts to understand how much information to offer. Taking the offensive was meant to gage your aggression. I am sorry, but you must understand: I had to be sure.” Then, gingerly removing it from within one of the books, Wong slides another photo across the table—pointedly toward Stark, away from Steve. “I did not find proof that your friend had gone back to 1990. But that is not to say I did not find proof he'd gone back.”

Stark looks sharply at Wong before flipping up the photo, keeping it pointedly out of Steve’s view. For a moment, he stares; then, motionless, he pales.

“Sweet mother of God,” Stark says faintly. He passes the photo blindly to Bruce. 

“What?” says Bruce; then, squinting at the photo—“ _Oh_.”

“Are you sure?” Stark asks, fumbling his way into the nearest chair. “Are you _sure_.”

“Facial recognition software confirms—”

“You don’t really plan to keep facts about my own life away from me when I’m standing right here,” Steve says loudly.

“No,” says Stark, waving a hand. “Have at, Rogers. Good luck and godspeed.” He looks hard at Bruce. “How is this possible?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce says, handing the photo to Steve. “I guess… we’ll talk to Shuri? Maybe she can shed some light on—”

“I may be able to help further,” says Wong.

“We got a lot to figure out,” Stark mutters, hand set loosely over his mouth. “This doesn’t seem right. We got a lot to get in line.” 

Steve stops listening.

In the photo, Steve is sitting at a table, one hand curled loosely into a fist. His posture broad and defensive, it's his uniform that tells the bigger story: U.S. Army, standard khaki—like the old days. Even with it, he’s kept his beard, though his hair’s been cut in a style befitting the era. The authority in his eyes is offset by a profound discomfort etched in every inch of his demeanor.

The photograph is labeled, in looping cursive along its bottom edge:

_J.B. of Brooklyn, USA        London        6 January 1942_

“I could not tell you much about the nature of your arrival,” Wong is saying. His voice resonates strangely in his ears; it takes Steve a long time to focus on the world. He locks eyes with Natasha as she takes the photo from him. Her abrupt look up after tells him she hadn’t known. She couldn’t have known. “Our current monitoring systems were not in place until the 1960s. What sort of portal might have created this passage, the potential consequences of that tear between worlds… we don’t have those answers. The records discuss trace amounts of radiation, but even this faded within a week.” 

“And there’s,” Steve says, but his voice doesn’t sound right. He clears his throat and tries again. “There’s no… mistaking this. Right? This photo, it’s definitely from this date, there’s no doubt…?”

Wong shakes his head. “The journal confirms it; the date is the same. Of course, there could be a mistake in the records, but our record-keeping is meticulous. If there is a mistake, it would be the first of its kind.”

Steve’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth. Everything in the room seems alternately blurred and too sharply in focus: the scaled feeling of some book’s cover under his knuckles; the rounded beam of the afternoon sun.

Thirty years feels like a luxury now. He’ll have to live eighty—Christ, an entire lifetime. He’s getting back everything he’s missed, except…

He’ll be 110 by the time he’s done. 

That seems like the kind of thing Bucky might’ve mentioned—how old he'd been when he'd killed Thanos.

“Why then?” Bruce asks. “Why go back to—there must be a reason for 1942, I mean—” 

“I can think of one,” grunts Stark.

“I don’t want this,” Steve says thickly, but Natasha shakes her head.

“It’s because of Erskine.”

At first, Steve doesn't know what she means; but then, all at once, he does. “You said it yourself,” Natasha says as Steve lowers himself into a chair. “The timeline doesn’t track. Tony’s been saying from the get-go that Howard had to be _told_ to use the Tesseract in making the serum—but someone had to know how to make it before Steve, or Steve wouldn’t have been made in the first place. Only problem is, Erskine was imprisoned in Germany after the failed serum on Schmidt—the bad serum, the one that _didn’t_ work the way Steve’s did—probably because it didn’t have the Tesseract in it.”

“Erskine said it wasn't finished,” Steve says roughly. “He knew before he gave it to me—but then it couldn't have been me who...?”

“It could," Natasha says, quiet. "Think this through. The SSR brought Erskine to Queens in—what, ’39? ’40?”

Steve sets his head in his hands. “Something like that.”

“So either Erskine or someone else went to Nazi-occupied Norway and tapped the Tesseract before Schmidt ever got to it, and _left it there_ , or…”

If the Tønsberg archives had been anything to go by, the Tesseract had been untouched in that Norwegian church until its destruction during the Nazi occupation.

In 1942.

If this timeline checks out... Steve could get there first. 

“So you’re saying that if Rogers doesn’t go back to the ‘40s to plant his own serum ingredients with the guy who gives it to him,” Stark says slowly, “then he never even gets made. No Captain America, no…?”

“History would change,” Natasha says. “Steve Rogers would live out a normal life.”

“That or die in that radiation chamber,” says Banner.

Natasha’s eyebrows raise. “Or that.”

Staying away from Bucky when he was the Winter Soldier was one thing. But if Steve has to go to Queens in 1942… that’s a borough away, it’s—

“I can’t do this,” Steve says faintly.

“I don’t think any of us are too happy about it,” Stark is saying, “but it’s the situation we got. You want to give up now? You know what—actually, that’s an option, and I wouldn’t blame you. To be honest I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d thrown in the towel a long time ago.” Steve looks up, surprised by his compassion. “But if we want to make this work—we’ve got our marching orders. We’ve got all this work that’s been done—”

“I just… one photograph, and that’s it?” Steve asks. There must be a loophole, there must be something. “We can’t just take this on faith.”

“It isn’t just one photograph,” says Wong—but Steve isn’t listening. 

“I gotta get out of here." The walls are closing in. He moves for the door. "I need some air.”

“I’ll come with you,” Natasha says; but Steve holds up a hand.

“No,” he says; “no. Just for fifteen minutes, can you leave me alone?” Steve stumbles out the door without waiting for response, taking the stairs in a flurry, bursting out into the sunlight only to find nothing loosens within his lungs.

  



End file.
